The Sunrise of Duane Street
by Krista's Scribbles
Summary: Celestine, a girl from Skittery's past, comes back to Manhattan after several years, expecting to find things exactly how they were. However, a lot has changed, mostly for the worst. In order to adjust to her new life and survive the dangers that have surfaced with it, old friends try to help Celestine reconnect with her former love. But what if Skittery has changed, too?
1. Prologue

Prologue

In 1897, Alonzo Liguori a.k.a. 'Skittery' escaped for a second time from the House of Refuge located on Randall's Island alongside his close friends Liam 'Spot' Conlon and Jack Kelly. He hid with this fellow escapees in a carriage belonging to a highly-esteemed character in New York's government, Theodore Roosevelt, and rode it undetected to the Harlem River. There they waited until nightfall before stowing away on a small rowboat which Jack had borrowed from a fisherman while the fisherman wasn't looking, and they found themselves back on the Manhattan streets they'd become so fond of.

This was Skittery's first escape from the House of Refuge in almost three years, and he hoped it would be more successful than the previous attempt. It was Jack's third.

Between 1897 and 1900, Skittery and his comrades including Jack and Spot, as newsboys, made their way in life through the toughest means possible. During the hot summer month of July in 1899, Jack co-organized and led a newsboy strike, outraged by the unfairness of the men they worked for, namely the great Joseph Pulitzer of _The World_ and William Hearst of _The Journal_. More than 5,000 newsboys shut down New York, clogging the Brooklyn Bridge to gain attention for their cause and stalling city traffic for hours. Within days, distribution of _The World_ and _Journal_ plummeted and ground to a halt.

The aim of the strike was greater than the original goal of the newsies. It created a broad movement of particularly young workers to unionize and demand better working conditions, reasonable hours, and suitable pay. It gave the younger generation of the lower class something to believe in and fight for to ensure a better future for themselves and ultimately for the rest of society.

...

I was born Marie-Celestine-Madeleine-Fournier. I am only 19-years-old, and while most people I know think of me as a young girl, I consider myself an old woman. Though I feel this way, folks often mistake me for much younger than I am. Maybe it is because I look more like a 16-year-old instead of one near 20, all thanks to the baby-face I possess. Or perhaps it is because I lack the confidence and security of a grown, modern woman, especially in the way I sound. I speak softly and intimately, sometimes in a whisper if I let my nerves get the better of me.

Most girls my age turn their attentions toward pursuing men, if they have not already begun to do so. My two older sisters were both married by the time they were my age. But that was a different time, I remind myself, but only by a few years. These young women like my older sisters that I grew up around all look for perfection. They have high expectations, specific standards. They want a man who asks the world from them, and one that they would throw away everything for in order to be with. But typically, that doesn't involve a huge sacrifice nor do they have to give up much, and in the end, he isn't very ideal either.

I suppose I am different from those girls. I wouldn't mind settling for someone as long as I wouldn't have to sacrifice a great deal. . .


	2. Requiem

**January 1900**

I can still hear an echo of distant music as it consumes my mind completely, leaving me in a dream-like trance. It was one that I had grown used to hearing at the time of a funeral, the _Requiem, Op. 48: VII. In Paradisum_ as composed by Gabriel Fauré. The melody becomes distinct the harder I concentrate on the voices. They sing of angels bringing the deceased to paradise. A quick shimmering motion floating from broken triads in the orchestra.

An overwhelming sense of solemnity washes through my body. The voices of the _Requiem_ escalate, and the music reaches its peak. And I am soaring, my garments billowing like balloons as I run, the world I am leaving fades.

It was sunrise when I pondered my escape for what seemed like the hundredth time. Breathless, I stepped into the courtyard from under the shade of the colonnade. The structure concealed the peek of sunlight as it emerged over the horizon. Streams of morning light and sunshine pierced the skin on my face in small flecks. I paused for a moment to relish in how good it felt being outdoors.

The first dawn of the 20th century was a beautiful one. Though I wished to cherish it for longer. I looked back at the architectural replica of the ancient monastery from which I had emerged. Immediately, I knew it would be in my best interest to go inside. Sure enough, the familiar bell from the other side of the courtyard pierced the still and frosty air. This signaled the beginning of a new day.

Sighing, I ignored the thought of escape again. I turned back to the long exterior hallway under the dark colonnade where I became secluded. The massive expanse of big white billowing fabric soared as I hurried from the courtyard. It floated along the floor like ripples on water.

I was a novice in a women's monastery, The Sisters of Saint Joseph. Unsupervised movement outside the walls went against the rules. And so, I moved with urgency, the hem of my thin habit dancing. As I drew closer to the chapel, I could hear Reverend Mother's voice below the open window as I crept alongside it.

"Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee," she began in a distant voice. My sleeve caught on a dead tree branch next to the window, pulling me and eliciting a small shriek from my mouth. "What are you doing?"

I froze in my tracks, terrified. It was clear morning now, as the sun seemed to rise in mere seconds.

I peeked through the window into the chapel. It was spacious on the inside despite the small appearance of its exterior. Vaulted murals decorated the walls, encompassing the immaculate altar of Christ. The silk-like, soft and hazy light streams that dripped in through the windows above made it clear.

I huddled closer to the lonely shadows against the chapel wall. In vain, I tried to make myself invisible.

"What are you doing? What are you doing? What are you doing?" I heard her sharp tone and caught her eye as she stared down at me from the open window. She looked displeased. "Why do you do this to me?" She shook her head. Her rosary beads intertwined with her fingers while she shook her prayer book at me. "Especially now when you are so close to taking your first vows?"

I stepped closer, my mind lost in a prayer that she would stop shouting. Whispering to myself, I could sense Reverend Mother growing impatient. The abrupt and jarring sound of another bell jolted me from a reply.

When I looked back to the window, Reverend Mother had gone back to the center of the chapel where she had been. I lingered there for a few seconds, expecting a lecture but nothing came. Returning indoors to the dormitory, I found one of the nuns. She was shaking an old wooden clapper loud enough to wake the dead.

The long central hallway of the small dormitory for girls was cold and uninviting to the weary. I followed as another nun, Sister Rosemary, as she made her own way down the hall, a second clapper in hand. Sister Rosemary was 47 and enjoyed sponge candies and making rosaries.

I looked at the large grandfather clock, and it read 5 a.m. I knew it was her job to awaken us all. She made sure that we were punctual to Mass, but it was something I dreaded.

As I walked, I peered into the various private cells one by one aligning the dormitory. Young women like me jolted awake when the clapper landed at their doors. I watched three of the girls I had become close with, Sisters Mary, Seraphina, and Lily, bolt from their beds. They shook off the drowsiness and hurried to the floor to pray.

I must have looked suspicious because I was awake, and I resented morning prayers. Though Sister Mary met my gaze from the doorway, she said nothing. Instead she turned her eyes to the floor as she clasped her hands together.

I returned to my own private room, which was identical to all the others in every way. A simple metal frame bed lined the wall and an icon of Christ above it. Nothing else. No desk or armoire or chest of drawers or mirror to look at my reflection. Vanity was a sin in the words of Reverend Mother. I couldn't remember the last time I saw myself. In the distorted reflection of a soup spoon or against a shiny golden adornment in the chapel?

People considered me rather attractive. I failed to see any of that in myself, imagining what I looked like at the moment.

I was young novice at 16. Though I looked 14 according to those who tried to guess.

I stared at the door as I sat on my bed. The clapper reached me, and I hurried from my bed like all the others, dropping to the floor.

I heard Sister Rosemary's gentle call emanating from the hall. "Dominus vobiscum."

My fellow novices including myself called back in unison, "Et cum spiritu tuo."

Moments later, Sister Rosemary continued her walk down the corridor. I rose and began to fold the nightgown I had discarded to the floor that morning in my haste to see the sunrise. My novice attire consisted of a simple blue garment, cinched at the waste with a thick brown belt. A white veil novice habit completed the attire.

The brief moments of nudity while changing shamed the other girls. But I accepted my nakedness in the privacy of my room. I had grown accustomed to it over the years, but I understood.

I readjusted a loose pin on my veil. My fingers fastened it without a mirror. I knew the other novices were transforming themselves from girls to nuns at that moment.

We descended down the dormitory staircase, all 12 of us young ones, in a single-file line, no talking. I could hear the echoes of our black shoes flurrying down the steps. The whisper sound our white veils made when they flew filled the air.

The bell was clanging louder as we made our way through the corridor. I relished in the hazy morning light that drifted in through the thin windows. One would think we were soldiers based on our manner alone. Moving as one in our steps, like a chorus of ballerinas or a flock of blue jays, we were perfect.

Tucked into the line, I struggled to keep my composure. I was perfect, but I was drowning. My spirit was suffocating. Hands placed on my hips, my finger nails digging into my sides. Eyes cast upward. They darted from beam to beam along the barrel-vaulted ceiling. The lids of my eyes fluttered against the streams of sunlight, knowing these beams. I've counted them every morning for two years.

I was 14 when I was first sent to the convent. A young girl, yet I thought of myself as an 18-year-old based on all that I have known. I became a novice at 15.

The lot of us sashayed into the chapel, our lock and step identical. The entire community of Saint Joseph had gathered for the ritual of Mass. A priest stood at the altar. His back to the congregation, I watched his hands begin to lay his accessories for the service.

The pews looked packed. I looked at their still and solemn faces. A collective sense of reverence and rapture surrounded me. It was so palpable one could taste it. Or, that was the incense.

I sat still with my back pressed against the pew. My legs crossed at the ankles and my hands folded in my lap as the priest spoke in Latin.

And all was quiet. A dead silence. It was a stillness so rich, so deep and voluptuous, it created its own presence in the room. Such a powerful silence broken by the occasional cough or sneeze. The mind began to wander as it did during this time. My thoughts were loud, unlike my usual speech.

I was certain that many understood this life and would continue to do so. Those who encouraged girls as young as I was to choose this vocation as a bride of Christ. A few of the girls were blind to the ways of the world.

I began to regard the faces of all the other novices, all sitting together in a line at the altar. It hit me how young and innocent they all were. Most of these girls, all in their final stages of training, were adolescents.

Those on the outside might see me as a nun, and they would see a pretty young girl. A pretty young girl who got into trouble. Disgraced and ruined for marriage. This pretty young girl who, by some horrible mental affliction, was fragile. So, she fled home and life for a convent.

I fidgeted with my folded hands. My eyes cast downwards with such despair at the floor. I stared down at it. All the other religious sisters' heads looked up toward the altar. Adoration twinkled in their eyes.

I envied them. They were perfect, and they were happy. I was perfect, and I was at war.

The thing that those on the outside refused to see: I was a wounded soldier. One that had fought on the front lines during so many battles that a numbness to the world had become natural. A soldier gone for so long that those who had known her had forgotten her, leaving her with nothing and no one.

I opened my eyes, biting my lip and listening to a prayer, dancing off the lips of my fellow novices. I was of course to recite along, but my tongue froze. Instead, my thoughts fumbled their way through a prayer of my own.

 _Dearest Alonzo_ , I spoke in my mind, _they tell me that this life is best for me. They say the Lord wanted it this way, and that it is inappropriate for you to visit me. Know that you are still in my heart._

 _Did you tell me you liked watching the sunrise? Sunrises are one of the most stunning and ethereal things I have seen. The promise of a new day follows a sunrise. And a new day brings me closer to seeing you._

 _Each day the trees in the courtyard rustle their branches, whispering to me that you are in good health. I like to listen to their chimes sway in the wind. The sound makes me think of our unbreakable love for one another._

 _I have no idea of the future, nor if I will see you ever again. But keep faith that no matter what comes, I will be your morning sunrise until I die. And you will hold me in your arms and hum sweet melodies like you used to._

 _I will ask Saint Joan to watch over the both of us. We could use her strength and courage. I love you for the rest of my days._

 _Your love, Celestine._


	3. Escape

**November 1900**

It was 10 months later when I made my escape. A bitter November wind blew outside my cell. It hit against the foundation of the monastery walls. I had no concept of time in my windowless room. Also, I hadn't closed my eyes to sleep since I first laid down, and that was hours ago. So, based on that I judged it must have been five in the morning.

The silence was the first thing I noticed. It was too quiet. Sister Rosemary was always there to shake the clapper, waking us up for morning prayer. But this time, nothing.

I waited and waited, but she never came. I stood from my bed and crept to my door. Peering out the small window, I looked into the dormitory hall. Seeing no one, I retreated back to my bed, wondering if Sister Rosemary overslept herself. That seemed unlikely. The next thought was if I should get back into bed. It was tempting. My body was near frozen standing against the cold floor in a nightgown. At least the blankets were warm.

Knowing better, I instead changed into my usual attire. With a sigh, I pinned my hair under my veil and slipped on my stockings and shoes. I stepped into the hallway. There stood other curious girls, some dressed and others still in their nightgowns. Still, no sign of Sister Rosemary nor the dreaded clapper.

Reverend Mother appeared in the hallway. The distinct sound of her rosary swung as she walked. Beads echoed off the stone-silent corridor. One could tell who it was by the sound of their rosary. It was like identifying someone by their walk or by their voice.

In the crowd of girls, I looked for Sisters Lily or Mary or Seraphina. When Reverend Mother came into view, we stood straight. In line we greeted her with, "Good morning, Reverend Mother."

"We never heard the bell, Reverend Mother," Sister Therese said. She wrapped her arms around her nightgown. Sister Therese was very much embarrassed appearing unclothed in front of the matriarch.

"Is it true, Reverend Mother?" Sister Seraphina replied in a worried voice.

"There will be no bells today," Reverend Mother interrupted. Her voice was firm as usual but halting all at the same time. She paused, taking a breath as she looked at our faces. "There has been a death among us."

The rest of us immediately fell into a chorus of wails and whispers as we wondered aloud who it could have been.

"Was it Sister Rosemary, Reverend Mother?" Sister Lily asked. She wore her blue garment yet her blonde hair hung down in a practical braid, her veil in her hands.

"No." Reverend Mother took another moment before speaking. Her lips tightened and her eyes red and weepy as though she had been crying. "Sister Mary."

I felt my heart drop from my chest at the mention of her name. I looked toward her cell and noticed that someone closed it, and she was nowhere in line.

"Sister Mary?" The girls cried, clutching their bellies or covering their mouths in sorrow. I couldn't speak or make a sound. Sister Mary died.

"Reverend Mother, how did she die?" Sister Seraphina sobbed, clasping the hand of Sister Lily. She disregarded that the order did not permit physical conduct.

Reverend Mother sighed, keeping her face expressionless. "It was the fluid in her lungs. She passed away in her slumber."

We were all silent in shock, for we had not known Sister Mary had such a condition. Why would she keep such a secret? Did other nuns besides Reverend Mother know? Then again, it was not commonplace to discuss personal matters with one another. But I supposed medical problems were an exception.

"If you who wish to pay your respects to Sister Mary you may. But please wait until her family has departed," Reverend Mother said in a low voice. She kept her eyes on our stunned faces. "Will you all dress now, please, and be as silent as you can."

We watched Reverend Mother turn and walk the rest of the way down the corridor.

"How did they remove her without waking us?" I heard Sister Lily ask another girl.

I walked toward Sister Mary's room, placing my hand on the doorknob, but someone locked it from the outside. I peered in through the window, finding her room spotless with no trace of clothing or rosary or prayer book. Someone made her bed, looking as though she had not slept in it, immaculate as ever.

Hours later, I would be in the chapel where they laid her body in a small, closed coffin, a silver crucifix on top. In silence, I watched as Reverend Mother said goodbye to her family as they walked toward the door. Her mother was weeping into a handkerchief. The father had his hand on her shoulder, his face emotionless. A young man in his twenties with a young woman and a baby were comforting the distraught mother. I guessed this was her older brother and his wife with Sister Mary's niece that she would never meet.

I knelt at the altar near the coffin, placing my hands on the soft case and laying my head down. It was not fair that her life was so short. Unlike myself, she wanted in, and she looked forward to taking her vows. She was sweet-faced and cheerful, and her heart was nothing if not pure.

I had known her since we both came to Saint Joseph. As time passed, I considered her a dear friend. The nuns did not permit such intimate relationships. But I was fond of her and would miss Sister Mary.

That evening, the priest held a small service in her memory. And as I listened to the beautiful voices of the Saint Joseph choir, singing the _Requiem, Op. 48: VII. In Paradisum_ , I began to shrink further and further into myself. My thoughts loud, my heart beating out of my chest, and my breathing tight, I knew that was my chance to disappear.

All the Sisters of Saint Joseph gathered in the pews during the service. No one would be watching the dormitory. The nuns left the doors unlocked. Nothing stood in the way, and I could slip into the night, undetectable and quiet.

My palms were sweaty as my mind raced. Was I going to go through with this? It all seemed to happen so fast. Now that my moment had come, I was not as courageous as I wished. But I knew what would happen if I stayed, and I felt it unfair to the order if I took my vows with a reluctant heart. I wouldn't be deceiving myself. I would be deceiving the others as well, and I could not permit myself to show such disrespect.

I excused myself to one of the nuns who sat with the novices as an instructor. Lying, I said that I needed to use the toilets. With a hesitant nod of her black veil, I stood. I maneuvered my way through the sitting girls beside me as they struggled to tuck in their legs to create a path. When I got to the aisle, I genuflected toward the altar, offering a prayer of my own.

 _Forgive me_ , I thought as I rose and turned, walking out of the chapel for the last time. _But I cannot stay in a life that has not_ _chosen me nor I it._

I hurried past the toilets and into the dormitory hallway, pushing open the door to my cell. I had few possessions of my own, but what I did have was everything in the world to me. My Saint Joan of Arc medal, a book prayers and hymns, and a rosary. And a little music box that my sister gave to me for my ninth birthday. This I managed to keep hidden under my mattress. All these I wrapped in my veil which I had taken off, letting my hair fall.

As I passed by Sister Mary's old room, I paused and looked through the small window, placing my hand on the door. It would not be long before someone noticed my absence. Pushing forward, I made my way down the empty and dimly-lit hallway. I was glad to leave my cell and the dormitory.

When I stepped outside into the fresh November air, I felt different for the first time in years. Feeling free, my heart was pumping so fast I thought I would pass out from the adrenaline. I crept through the courtyard, avoiding the path next to the chapel where someone could spot me. My billowy shadow danced across the candlelight placed near the mosaics.

Reaching to the main gate in the moonlight, I could still here the macabre Requiem from the chapel. It beckoned me onward. One swing of the gate, and I was running as fast as I could in a random direction without any map of the land in my mind. But I had to get as far as I could before I could make a plan.

I knew where I was, and I knew where I wanted to go. The question was how. New York City was not within an easy walking distance from Monroe County in Rochester. I had to think of another means of transportation.

I could take the train, but I hadn't any money. For a while I walked alone in the darkness through fields and alongside empty roads. Based on sheer guess, I was going in the right direction. Down the way, I could see a town a mile or so. There must be a train station there.

But money would be an issue. No way I could afford a train ticket. Also, I was unsure of the times table on which the express operated. Stumbling from lack of sleep two nights in a row, I made it to the town.

A small station was nearby. A kerosene lamp illuminated the platform, indicating someone was inside the stationhouse. Several shadowed figures huddled on a bench near the platform, waiting for the train.

I reckoned a wild-looking young woman such myself could not ride a train to the city for free, but a nun could. Hiding by the stationhouse, I crouched down and unwrapped the contents of my habit. I hooked my rosary around my belt, clasped my Joan of Arc medal around my neck. Clutching my prayer book, I hid the small music box in the thin pocket of my underclothes. Then I put on my veil, adjusting my garment and taking a deep breath.

Making my way inside the stuffy building, I approached the old ticket master. He looked asleep. I cleared my throat and smiled as he jolted awake, coughing and adjusting his spectacles. When he saw me, he looked a bit surprised and offered a soft smile. The crinkled lines around his eyes and lips pinched up his face.

"I am sorry to have awoken you, sir," I said, shifting from one foot to the other as I tried not to shiver from the cold. "It must be almost midnight."

The old man looked down at his silver pocket watch in the dim candlelight. "Why it's two o'clock, Sister," he said in a scratchy voice like he hadn't used it in ages. "How can I help you?"

I did my best to look troubled, though it was easy considering I felt awful for telling a white lie. "You see, I am visiting…" I flicked my eyes to a sign behind him reading Town of Mendon, Est. 1813, "the good town of Mendon to see my brother and his family. I am from the Convent of the Sacred Heart in New York City. My train is due back tonight, and it is of most importance that I am on it. My only trouble is that I seem to have misplaced my ticket in the darkness. Oh, what can I do?"

He had been nodding while I told my story, believing every word. When I had finished, he looked upon my distraught face with pity. His eyes twinkled, he placed his bony and wrinkled hand on his heart. "Don't worry, Sister. I'll see to it myself that you make it to the city. It's a worry to lose one's ticket, but never mind that. I know you're telling the truth, Sister. There's no doubt in my mind."

My smile was genuine though my heart was beating. This old man did not deserve my tricks. I justified it in my own mind as a small sin that would be insignificant in the long run.

"Here you are," he continued, handing me a new train ticket. "Free of charge, of course. Train is due within the next hour. You are welcome to wait in here if you'd like. You might find it a bit warmer."

I took the ticket, clasping his warm and withered hand in my cold one. "You are very generous. Thank you for your kindness. I will not forget it."

As I waited on the wooden bench inside the station, I began to worry. The nuns had noticed my disappearance by now. They must have been in a panic, searching the convent for me, praying for me. Sister Lily and Seraphina and all the other girls, were they praying for me? Were they sad for me like they were for Sister Mary? A strong wave of guilt washed over me. I fought to push it away, my fingers digging into the rosary beads I was clutching.

The whistle of the train rang outside the stationhouse, jolting my body. I stood, gathering myself and making sure I had my possessions on me. Ticket in my left hand and prayer book in my right, I turned and smiled toward the old station master.

"Thank you again, and God bless."

He waved, wishing me well as I headed out the door and toward the large iron horse as it pulled to a stop. The steam swished out from underneath.

The shadowed strangers on the bench outside shuffled on, none of them making eye contact with me. The conductor helped me aboard, and as he took my ticket, I felt a bit secure that I was on my way.

I sat by myself in the dark train, my head leaning against the frosty cold window. I blew on the window, my hot breath creating a foggy residue against the cool glass. Tracing a face with my finger, I listened as the train whistled to life and car began to move out of the station.

It was real. I was leaving. What I had been dreaming for three years was coming true. Why had I waited this long?

The landscape flashed by in a blur. The train whipped through towns and fields all through the rest of the night and morning. Traveled through Syracuse first, stopping as more got on and off. Then down through Albany where the train stopped again. Although the seat across from me was empty, no one took it, and I rode for the trip that lasted seven and a half hours.

When the train reached Manhattan, I felt excitement flood and overtake my thoughts. I shuffled off the train and the same conductor helped me down and wished me well. Pausing once I got through the other side of Grand Central Station, I thought a bit. It was busy and crowded and everyone seemed in a hurry and knew where they were going. This made me feel a bit dizzy, but I did not want for anywhere else in my life.

The hustle and bustle were a minor inconvenience that I ignored. It was near 11 in the afternoon. My stomach rumbled, for I had not eaten anything since a light supper the evening before. Yet I had not a cent to my name, nor did I have a clear idea of where I would go.

Still in my habit, I crossed over to the opposite side of the street. I scooted past cross sweepers and fruit carts. Everything looked so new and modern compared to where I had come from. The monastery looked ancient. Manhattan's streets allowed me to step through time and into the future.

I was glad I escaped but not surprised that the city still had endless problems of its own. Everything looked unsanitary. Stagnant water and carcasses of dead cats crowded along the side of a tenement near where I stood. It was a wonder anyone inside was in good health or still had their lives at all without having drowned in the water.

Poverty was ripe. Many people looked worse than the depressing tenements themselves. Walking by almshouses set up by reformers, I saw a crowd of people on the inside through the front windows. I wondered how much it cost to feed and shelter all those poor souls. No proper lighting or ventilation, I was certain it was not any cleaner than the streets.

Some people slept on park benches. They cleared off the autumn leaves from the wooden seats. Groups of scraggly-looking men asked for money in the streets and in the parks. A few begged for bits of food next to bistros and kept an eye out for tourists. Ragged and solemn-looking, they bothered the passerby.

Some people searched for scraps of cloth or rags to sell. They walked with large bags slung over their shoulders. Then they picked up pots, bottles, ribbon, metal, pieces of trash, and whatever else on the streets. I supposed they sold them to middlemen. People who would renew the scraps to create other things bought the materials.

I watched a little girl about ten or eleven years old while I stood at the corner of a sidewalk. She was across the street in an alley. The child was picking up animal bones to sell to manufactures. A smart thing too, as animal bones sold for comb-making paid a decent amount. In her own way, the little girl helped to create a whole cottage of industry. These included junk shops, pawnshops, and second-hand stores.

Money came from such a job as rag picking. Two cents for every animal bone the girl found, enough to get by. I could not help but admire her. She was at least trying to make a living, even if it was on the edge of destitution. The little girl was dirty, dripping with murky water, with her matted hair and ragged little dress. In secret, I watched as she took a break from scavenging bones and picked up a broom, beginning to sweep the streets. Her hair flew with her broom in the wind. This child looked like a fragile little butterfly.

Before thinking on it, I had crossed the busy street, ducking out of the way of a dinging trolley. Now I stood in front of the small girl. She did not seem to notice me, her eyes trained on the dirty ground as she swept in a slow, laborious way. I watched her for a few moments, listening to her hum the tune of a song familiar to my ears. The girl began to sing the words, still unaware of my presence.

" _Les beaux messieurs font comme ça. Et puis encore comme ça,_ " she sang in a low murmur to herself as she swept. She was careful not to let the ragged bristles of the broom scratch at her bare, filth-caked feet. " _Sur le pont d'Avignon, L'on y danse, l'on y danse_ —"

I found myself singing along with her out loud, my voice a bit louder than hers. " _Sur le pont d'Avignon, L'on y danse tout en rond_ ," we sang together. Her voice trailed off toward the end of the chorus when she heard mine. She was gazing up at me, a frightened look in her eyes, astonished that I knew the song.

" _Les belles dames font comme ça_ ," I tried to continue, hoping she would sing again. But the child remained quiet and still as a statue. With a cough, I stopped, realizing I may have overstepped an invisible boundary. Clearing my throat, I gave the little girl a soft smile, hoping to show her that I was not someone she should fear. " _Je suis désolée. Je ne voulais pas te.._." I was trailed off with my words as they rolled off my tongue with an odd taste. I had not spoken French in what seemed like years.

With puzzled look on her face, the girl clutched the handle of her broom tighter, looking me up and down. In my thoughts, I figured she did not speak French at all and knew the popular song. I noticed the solemn emptiness in her dark brown eyes, the way she stared at me like I would give her an unkind word or a kick.

"Do you speak English, child?" I asked, watching as she nodded.

"Yes, Sister," she replied. "Do you wish me to sweep a path for you?"

I shook my head. The 'sister' made me think twice. Then I remembered my habit. "No thank you," I said as her eyes lowered once more to the ground. She stepped to the side, allowing me to walk past so she could continue her work. "Where are your shoes, my child?" I asked her, feeling a bit chilled myself from the stiff wind. I could imagine that this girl would catch her death from the cold.

"My boots are too small, Sister," she answered in a quiet voice, still not meeting my gaze. "They hurt my feet."

"But do you have a bigger pair that will suit your feet better?"

She shook her head after a moment of hesitation. "I haven't enough money, Sister."

"Are you cold then?"

The little girl looked into the crowded street. Harsh winds blew her ratted hair in all directions as she nodded.

"And hungry too, I suppose," I said to myself. My heart ached for the small child. In her desperate young face, I saw my own staring back at me. For the life of me, I could not walk away and leave her there. "Come now, what is your name, little one?"

For a moment, her dark eyes flickered upward and found mine as she spoke. "Estelle, Sister," she said in a whisper. "Estelle Marcotte."

"Estelle Marcotte," I repeated, bending down to her eye-level. I did not mind that my garments touched the dirty ground. "How old are you? May I take a guess?"

The little girl, Estelle, looked into my eyes, searching for something. She shrugged and nodded, a faint amused smile on her lips.

I pretended to think hard, pursing my lips and looking up toward the sky. "Hmm," I mused, tapping my chin. "You are 14."

Her smile widening a bit, Estelle shook her head.

"No?" I grinned, thinking about it again. "Very well. Are you 12?"

Again, Estelle shook her head as she beamed. She stood a bit straighter, proud that I mistook her for someone older. "No, Sister. I'm 10 years old."

"My, 10 years of age," I said with a gasp, feigning shock at the true revelation of her youth. "You are quite almost a woman," I teased, beaming as she nodded.

"I am already a woman, Sister," Estelle corrected me in a practical tone, tucking her hair behind her ears.

"Of course, that you are," I nodded, playing along with the idea. Part of me she hoped did not think of herself as a woman. "Do you live near here, Estelle?"

The tiny girl bit her lip. Her dress and hair blew in the wind as she pointed across the river, looking like a wild little sprite. "Sort of," she admitted, turning back to look at me. "Over in Jersey City Heights on Webster Avenue. We have a little flat."

"Then what are you doing all the way over here?" I asked, half-knowing the answer by watching her previous actions.

Estelle looked down at her broom and back up at me like it was obvious. "It's better here."

I furrowed my eyebrow, puzzled about what she meant by that. "What is better here?"

Looking around with furtive eyes, she dipped a small hand into her dress pocket. She resurrected the animal bones along with other bits of rags and scraps. "I have a better deal when I sell these."

I wondered why she was being so secretive. Many others made their living by picking up such rubbish in the streets. "And what deal is that, may I ask?"

Estelle swallowed, not looking me in the eye. The wind was blowing harder, and I saw the small girl shiver as it whipped through her hair once more.

"How about we go some place warm and continue our little talk?" I suggested, gazing at the darkening clouds overhead and back at Estelle. She gave a little sigh and hid the broom behind a barrel in the alley.

She agreed with a tentative nod and took my outstretched hand in her own small, grimy one. I looked for a place we could go and sit. If only I had a bit of money to buy her something to eat. That I had not any money at all worried me, but I chose not to focus on that for the moment.


	4. Estelle

The city had become unfamiliar to me in the time that I had been away. It looked the same, but it felt different. I was not sure if it was a difference I liked or disliked yet. We passed the old courthouse and the giant buildings of top newspaper offices. Of course Central Park looked the same, as did the men's barber shop near Printing House Square. New sites had sprung up in my absence. Places such as a modern-looking bank and a shelter for battered young women. A few new churches of various denominations placed next to one another masked the city of its vices.

As I passed by one such church, I was again reminded of what I had done that morning. An unwanted feeling of guilt in my stomach accompanied it, or was that hunger.

And then I saw it. The city's hidden dime of a restaurant that was both inexpensive and of quality food and service. I had forgotten it until Estelle and I walked to its front window.

Tibby's Café was a Manhattan original bistro. This American style café served everything. Breakfast, luncheon and brunch items. Closed on Sundays. They had sweet or savory _crépes_ , sourdough waffles, and homemade pastries. For lunch, they served sandwiches, salads, soups, and quiches. One could request hot chocolate, coffee, tea or a fresh fruit juice to go along with their breakfast.

Arabella and Bram Claes were the owners. They had come from the Belgian countryside before emigrating to America. The Claes's wanted to carry over the tradition of serving _crépes_ at sidewalk coffeehouses. Thus they opened Tibby's Café.

I knew of no other café in Manhattan that offered authentic _crépes_ for such a low price. The Claes's café had a cozy indoor and outdoor seating with a view of the bustling streets. Though it was too chilly of a day to sit outside, as the tables were vacant.

The traditional _crépes_ were savory and sweet. The chef stuffed them with to-die-for goodies for breakfast, brunch, lunch and dessert. It was hard for me to forget. I dreamt of them during my days in the monastery as the order gave us modest food in meager portions.

"Would you like to go in?" I asked Estelle as she gazed up at the café in astonishment.

"You mean, we're going in there, Sister?" She licked her lips, her grip on my hand tightening.

I knew I had not the money to pay for any food, but it would be a warm enough place to continue our chat. The enticing smell of food was torturous.

The Claes's had put thirty different _crépes_ on the eye-catching chalkboard menu. Some were French-inspired and others were Manhattan originals. Other treats of course existed on the menu. Tarts, flans, rolls, gumbos, fresh greens, seasoned swizzle, carbonated water, brandies, and punch.

It was a bit of Europe in Tibby's, which was part of why I felt so at home there.

I had forgotten about the unspoken 'seat yourself' policy until a waiter came over and told me so. "Choose any available table you'd like, Sister," the mustached man said with a smile. He gestured with his hand to the crowded dining area.

"Right, thank you." Still holding Estelle's hand, I guided her to an open two-person table by the large window. She was looking around the restaurant in wonder, her dark eyes wide and searching.

I felt the eyes of other patrons on us as we settled in, and I knew they were staring. It seemed justifiable enough. We both stood out a bit what with my habit and her ragged and shoeless appearance. Ignoring the eyes, I turned my attention to Estelle.

She looked back at me with a newfound interest, folding her hands in her lap and offering me a light smile. "I've never been in here before, Sister."

"It is one of my personal favorites," I smiled back, looking around the café.

Estelle tilted her head. "I didn't know that nuns ate in restaurants."

"They do not…" I faltered, trying to think of a reason to give her for why I knew this place. I sighed, looking into her confused brown eyes. "You see, Estelle, I was not always a nun."

"What?"

Before I could continue, the same mustached waiter walked over to our table with a notepad. "Good afternoon, Sister," he nodded to me, and he waved to a shy Estelle. "How are you, little one?"

Estelle looked up at him through her long lashes. "I'm fine, thank you, sir."

"What'll it be today?" He asked, looking from the untouched paper menus on the table to the two of us.

I glanced down at the table and back up at the waiter. Estelle seemed attentive about what I would say. No doubt she was hungry and hoping for something. My heart strained against my chest as I saw the look of plea on her face. I bit my lip and reached a hand into my pocket, hoping against hope to find a cent.

The waiter held up a hand. "No need to go to your purse, Sister," he said with a chuckle. "This one is on the house for both you and the child."

I could not believe my ears. "Are you certain?"

"Of course, Sister," he nodded, and I felt a tremendous weight lift off my shoulders. Still, I knew not to push his kindness by ordering too much. "Whatever you'd like, on me," he continued, reading my thoughts.

"You are too kind, Mr. …"

"Bill Held, Sister." His smile was infectious.

"Thank you Mr. Held," I finished, picking up a paper menu and handing the other one to Estelle. I looked over it and found something that I used to enjoy. "If you please, I would like the ham and cheese _crépe_ and a coffee."

Bill jotted down the order and turned to Estelle. "And for this little lady?"

Estelle regarded the menu with more concentration than I had ever seen someone do. It occurred to me that she did not know how to read, but she set the menu down and gave her order to Bill in a quiet voice. "I've never had a _crépe_ before, but I suppose I'd like the cheese one."

Bill smiled. "Well, if you've never tried a _crépe_ , you must try ours. They're unbelievable, if I do say so myself."

She seemed a bit hesitant but nodded.

"And to drink?"

"Water, please."

Bill finished scribbling in his notebook and hurried to the kitchen.

Estelle turned back to me, unfazed by the interruption, and picked up where we left off. "You weren't always a nun, Sister?"

I paused, drumming my fingernails against the table. In truth, I was contemplating what I should and should not tell her. "No, I was not. And I must correct you. I am not a nun."

Her eyes squinted at first like she was trying to concentrate on something small. They widened as she looked over my habit and rosary. "You're not? But you look like one."

I allowed myself a dry laugh, considering how confused I had made her. "I have not taken my vows. I was only a novice, which is a nun-in-training. Do you understand?"

Estelle nodded, still looking alarmed. "What should I call you then?" She asked.

"Could you call me Celestine?" I replied, my voice catching in my throat as I spoke my name. I had not heard it said in a long while, the name sounding foreign on my tongue. "My mother named me Celestine."

"Okay…Celestine," she said with a small smile. "It's nice to meet you."

I chuckled a little as Bill came over with a water for Estelle and my coffee. "Thank you," I said as he nodded in return.

Estelle leaned forward a bit so others could not hear her. "But if you're not a nun, then isn't it wrong to not pay for our food?"

She had a point, and I felt an immense amount of guilt about it. Still, I had no other way to pay so this ragged young girl could have a decent meal. I figured the universe would continue its balance.

I said nothing and put the warm mug to my lips, taking a sip as the steaming coffee burned the back of my throat. Estelle did not push the matter.

When Bill brought over the _crépes_ , Estelle licked her lips as she stared at hers. She dug her fork into the soft dough and scooped a piece to her mouth.

"Enjoy," Bill said with a tiny laugh.

Estelle smiled up at me when I asked her how she liked it. It was a wide, close-lipped grin as her eyes twinkled and gazed at me in appreciation. "It's the best thing I've ever tasted," she answered in a much lighter tone.

I poked at my _crépe_ , though I was hungry. It was satisfying to watch her dig into a meal such as this. I assumed it was a rare treat.

As the afternoon progressed, I got bits of Estelle's story. Estelle was the third of seven children. Her mother was a factory worker, Marie-Trudie Bernard. Her father Adrien Moreau married Estelle's mother in April 1885. They lived in Paris, France, and had two children. When they emigrated to the states, twin brothers followed Estelle's birth. Mr. and Mrs. Moreau had two more girls after that.

That same year, not long after her youngest sister's birth, Estelle's father was sick with influenza. Her mother put Mr. Moreau into a hospital on Blackwell's Island. Thomas Allen, who lived in the flat below them, befriended Estelle's mother. He moved into the Moreau's flat, saying he wanted to take care of the finances and bills. Mr. Allen was a 40-something-year-old father of two sons from a previous marriage. The man had a 'crooked smile and an uncomfortable stare,' as Estelle put it.

"When Juliet was one, we found her strangled in her crib. Her blanket wrapped around her fragile little neck like a noose." Estelle's voice was low as she picked at the remaining bits of food on her plate. "Everyone said it was an accident. Babies could smother themselves in their sleep. Luckily, we got to her in time, and she could breathe."

I took a sip of my room temperature coffee as I listened to the young girl speak. She seemed reluctant at this point, gazing out of the window from time to time, looking for someone in the crowd. "Father died last year," she said as her voice shook and her eyes grew weepy. "He died of influenza in an asylum on Blackwell's Island. Mother married Thomas Allen only a month later."

I offered her my untouched napkin to dab her eyes. She did with a muffled 'thank you.'

Estelle mentioned another sister, Helene. She had gotten sick from eating raw oysters. Helene stayed at the hospital for two days. According to Estelle, it was Thomas Allen who had allowed her to eat such rotten food.

"She was okay," Estelle clarified after seeing the look on my face. "But both my mother and Mr. Thomas grew angry at what it cost them to send both Juliet and Helene to the hospital. They were still trying to pay for Father's stay on Blackwell's."

I felt shocked to hear this. A mother more concerned with money than her children's well-being. It made me curious about what else Estelle's mother neglected.

"Is your mother good to you?" I asked, sensing the answer. I watched Estelle squirm in her seat, setting down her fork and taking a sip of water. Nodding, I waited for her to speak.

"Mother beats me with a shoe or sometimes with a hairbrush," Estelle replied, speaking to her lap. "A few months ago, she sent me to the hospital for several weeks. One that is near our home. I had a horrible infection on my arm from one of those beatings," she said. She rolled up her sleeve and showed me a bit of scarring along her forearm.

I gasped, touching a hand to my mouth as I looked at the damage.

"After I left, Mother continued to hit me," she admitted, rolling her sleeve back down. "I'm used to it, though," she said, seeing the look on my face. "Besides, I'm rarely home. That's why I like to spend my time over here. Freedom."

I nodded, thinking about all that she had said. "I see," I mumbled as Bill came by to collect our empty plates.

"Have a wonderful afternoon," he waved as I thanked him once more and left with Estelle's hand in mine.

"Thank you for the food, Celestine," Estelle said when we were outside. She looked up with a smile despite all that she had told me. "I don't know how to repay you."

"No need for that," I shook my head and placed a hand on her cheek. Surprising me, Estelle reached out and wrapped her arms around my waist in a hug. I stepped back at first, not used to touch in a long time. But I wrapped my arms around her small frame as soon as I collected myself.

She wouldn't let go for some time, and I did not try to pull away. I could feel that she did not want to part with me. Estelle had found a friend or matriarchal figure in me from which she refused to part.

When she did pull back, I noticed her eyes were watery again. "I must go back to work," she said, referring to the animal bones in her pocket. "If I don't collect enough…" she trailed off, her eyes wandering into the crowd of people.

"I understand," I replied, bending down and stroking her arms. "You keep out of trouble, now," I said, "and stay warm. It was a pleasure to have met you, Estelle."

"It was a pleasure to meet you, too," she smiled, giving a small curtsey. "I wish I could see you again."

I nodded, standing back up. "I am sure you will. You say you are often on this side of the river, after all."

"I'll be sure to sweep near Tibby's since that is your favorite restaurant," she said with a beaming smile. "And I'll see you then?"

I tapped her nose as I grinned. "Yes." I watched her give one last wave and then turn. She disappeared into the crowd and leaving me standing on the corner.

My stomach full from a hot lunch, I turned my attentions toward other things, such as lodgings and work. I knew I could not keep masquerading as a nun; my conscience would not permit it. Retracing my steps to where I got off the train, I found myself in front of the almshouse.

Walking into the humid and stuffy front room, the sound of baby's wails and a dozen languages pierced my ears. I located several wicker baskets immediately. They lined the walls, full of donated clothing from different charities. Ignored by those around me, I sifted through one of the baskets that contained women's clothes. It had been so long since I had worn anything but my habit and garments given to me by the Sisters of Saint Joseph.

I gathered the necessary undergarments, and I resurrected a pair of boots. Also, I found a scratchy wool skirt, a stained cotton shirt, and a knit jacket with flimsy buttons. It would do. I managed to grab a few other pairs of undergarments as well as two or three more skirts and blouses. Finally, I found a nightgown not tainted with blood or ripped at the seams.

I found a women's powder room off to the side where I changed out of my clothes and into my new ones. I took the used carpet bag that was in one of the donated piles. In it, I placed my new folded garments as well as the few possessions I carried. Discarding of my habit and religious attire into one of the baskets, I looked at myself in a mirror on the wall.

I did not recognize the girl staring back at me. It had been such a long time since I had seen myself like this. Combing my hair with my fingers, I pulled a few strands back and tied them with a simple bootlace. Satisfied, I took the carpet bag and walked out of the almshouse. I looked like a different young woman.

I was no longer stared at on the street as I walked, unspectacular and ordinary. My mind raced as I thought of finding a place to work not to mention a place to sleep. I thought of Estelle, wondering if her family would allow me to stay with them. That was out of the question. And I was not all sure I wanted to after what she had told me.

Across the street, I locked eyes with a young man sitting on a bench outside of a butcher's shop. He was reading a newspaper. The young man lowered his gaze after a moment, returning to his paper.

In my mind's wanderings, I guess I looked lost or confused, staring into space on the sidewalk. A large hand wrapped around my wrist, startling me from my musings. It was a 20-something-year-old man with a decent-looking jacket and a bowler hat. "Excuse me, ma'am. You speak English, yes? You look a little lost. Are you from here? Are you looking for a place to stay?"

His quickness in speech and those questions made my head spin.

"I, um, yes, I speak English," I began, trying to pull my hand from his grip, but he did not budge. "I've come from upstate. How did you know I needed lodging?"

He chuckled, shaking his head. "Oh, I can tell when someone's in trouble. It's part of my job, ma'am. Say, I know a great place you can stay for a very low price. Hot meals, clean clothes, and the friendliest of people," he continued. He began to walk with my wrist still in his grasp, forcing me to come along. "It's not too far from here, either. How about I take your bag? I'm sure it's heavy."

"No thank you," I said, hurrying to keep up with his pace. "It is not heavy at all. Um, where is this place? Is it like a hotel?"

"Huh? Oh yeah, it's like a hotel," he went on, smiling in a friendly manner that did not quite reach his eyes. "Are you sure I can't take your bag? You've been traveling for so long. Upstate to the city is not a short trip. Besides, it wouldn't be right for me to let a lady carry such a large luggage all by herself."

He reached to take it as we walked, and I held it out of his reach, beginning to drag my feet. Something did not feel right. Anyone who used that much charm was bad news. "No, I can manage."

"I insist," he said, his grip on my wrist tightening.

"You're hurting me," I winced, looking for witnesses. No one seemed to take notice. "I will be alright finding a place on my own. Thank you for your help all the same."

Something in his eyes changed and darkened. His brow furrowed and his phony smile turned into a frown. The man's hand tightened around my wrist, causing me to cry out. "Give me the bag before I shove my fist down your throat, you bitch," he growled in my ear in a threatening tone.

I was speechless, contemplating whether I should give him the bag or not. If I did, I would lose my new clothes and my few possessions. Would he strike me in front of all these people? Not that anyone cared.

I wished I had left my habit on.

Before I could do anything, a fist flew out and connected with the man's jaw, hard. Another blow landed to his nose with a sickening crack, blood gushing from it.

"What the hell, Brooklyn?" The man yelled through his hands over his face as he doubled over. The guy who had been reading the newspaper grabbed the man up by his hair and punched him in the stomach. He pushed him into an alley where the assailant collided with garbage bins. This sent both the bins and him to the ground.

He looked up, catching the blood with his fingers. Gazing from me to the young man, he waved his hand, connecting the two of us in the air. "She your girlfriend or something? I didn't know!" He yelled to the boy next to me.

The young man walked toward him as my attacker flinched. "Get the hell outta here before I decide to stop playing nice."

The man scampered up and ran the opposite way down the alley, vanishing from sight.

I felt like my heart was about to beat out of my chest. My breathing had increased from all the uproar. I didn't realize how I was clutching my bag until I looked down and saw that my knuckles were white.

"Are you okay, Miss?" The young man asked, smoothing back the hair that had flopped in his eyes during the ordeal. He shook his punching hand several times in the air like they had stung.

"I…I…"

"English?"

"No…I mean, yes…" I shook my head and nodded as he raised an eyebrow. "I mean thank you."

He paused, nodding back and looking to where the man had stumbled into the trash bins. "You're welcome. Can't be too careful with sneaks like him. They pretend to help people, usually immigrants. Find you a place to stay if you look like you don't know where you're going. Before you know it, your bag and all your money are gone."

I stared at him, wide-eyed and silent. I had forgotten how dangerous the city was, and how on the lookout I would be from then on.

Staring at him more, I noticed the how tall and thin he was. He had golden walnut hair that was long in the front, framing his face. His eyes were a stormy blue, and I realized something familiar about him. The young man looked like somebody I had met years ago.

I felt his eyes on mine as he caught me staring. "Um," I snapped my eyes back up to his. "This may sound far-fetched, but you look like someone I used to know."

He looked me up and down with his blue eyes, which made my cheeks feel hot. Not used to boys staring at me like this in years, I looked away. He wore a flannel shirt with faded red suspenders, brown trousers, and a light jacket. I noticed a slingshot tucked in his jacket pocket as he ran his slim, long fingers through his hair.

"I doubt it," he replied with a forced chuckle.

I shook my head. "No, I know you from…somewhere." I must have looked transfixed on him because he began to back away.

"Uh…" he shrugged, struggling with words himself. "I'm at a loss."

I remembered the nickname the man had addressed the boy as. I grinned as it began to fall back to my memory. "I do not mean to come off as presumptuous when I ask you this. But do you… Did you… Have you ever sold _The Brooklyn Eagle_ near the bridge say about three or four years ago?"

The boy looked at first like he had not heard nor understood what I said. He folded his strong arms, staring at me like I knew something he did not.

I took a breath and continued, going with my intuition. "Is your name Liam Conlon?" I asked.

A look of realization washed over his face as he stared at me. His arms dropped to his sides. "Holy shit," he murmured, looking at me sideways as he stepped closer. "Celly, is that you?"


	5. Sarah

Liam, or Spot, wrapped his arms around me in a hug to my surprise. I had not expected him to do that. Feeling crushed under his weight yet warm in his embrace, it shielded me from the cold wind. People were staring, and I felt a blush creep to my cheeks at how improper this looked.

He held me out at arm's length, eyes scanning all over as he lifted my chin with his fingers. My heart was beating so fast. It was a relief to find someone familiar in this city that had become a stranger to me. "You're so beautiful," he said finally, touching my cheek with his rough hands. "What are you doing back here? I thought…"

"I said I would come back, right?" I said, my smile faltering a bit. "Did you forget? Has everyone forgotten about me?"

"No, no one's forgotten you. It's…well, shit, Celly. It's been three and a half years. We didn't think we'd ever see you again," he shrugged, still staring at me like I had performed a miracle. "I can't believe you're here."

"Me neither. I have so much to tell you," I said, breathless. "I expect you do, too."

"You're right about that. I want you to tell me all about it. Everything."

The two of us stood there on the sidewalk. His hands were still around my upper arms, afraid I would disappear right there. We looked at each other like siblings separated at birth, seeing one another for the first time.

So many thoughts and feelings overwhelmed my brain. Spot let go of me, and I felt empty and cold. "Have you seen any of the old gang? Who have you talked to?"

I shook my head. "You are the first person I have run into."

"Damn, how about that. I know a lot of people who'll be happy to see you," Spot continued, taking my arm in his as we walked down the street. "Here," he offered, gesturing to my bag with a lopsided smile. "Promise I won't steal it."

I chuckle a bit and allow him to carry it for me.

"If you're still needing a place to stay, there are several boarding houses around the city. I know some good ones where the rent is decent. I can take you there if you'd like," he offered as we passed by the alley that Estelle had swept in. I did not see her.

"Yes, I would like that very much. Thank you, Spot," I smiled. It felt odd to say his name again after so long. Hearing his voice was a comfort in it of itself. "So, how are you these days? It seems like only yesterday you were a kid. A little boy selling newspapers with ridiculous headlines," I said with a soft giggle.

He chuckled a bit, smiling down at the ground and nodding. "Yeah, I've come a long way since then."

"Is that not still your job?"

"Selling papers? Good God no," Spot replied with a laugh, running a hand through his hair. "No, I'm done with that now. Can't be a kid no more, you know? I mean, I'm 18. How many 18-year-olds you know sell papers or shine shoes?"

I nodded. Spot was 18, and that made my head spin. "What is it that you do then?"

Spot was quiet for a beat or so, and I could tell that he did not want to answer the question. "A lot has happened since you've been gone, Cel," Spot responded. "Opportunities come, some good, some bad. You take what'll benefit you to survive. Like I said, I ain't the same kid you knew two or so years ago."

"I am not quite following," I said, confused about what he was getting at.

"Never mind," Spot shook his head, telling me to drop the subject. "Here we are."

It was a large Victorian Gothic style building with red brick. Iron cresting decorated the high mansard roof. Here I was to begin my new life as Celestine Fournier, hoping to reclaim lost years.

The walk down the avenue had been short. I wondered if Spot had picked the first boarding house we came upon or if this was as safe as he said. Spot led me through the tiny brick patio to the door of the House.

Spot gave a firm knock on the door with a strong hand, and I waited for the door to open. I wondered how long I could stay there for. After all, I would need a job to pay for lodging.

My heart skipped a beat as the door opened with force. A petite, dark-haired young girl in her early adolescence stood in the doorway.

"Is the mistress here?" Spot asked, kindly.

"Yeah," replied the girl, her Manhattan accent rather strong, "she's here. But she's occupied right now. You can go to the front room." She looked so tiny and innocent, but nothing about her mannerisms seemed immature.

I followed Spot and the girl, who spoke with a lack of kindness and politeness in her tone, to a dimly-lit front room. The girl left us, and Spot and I waited for the matron.

The room was clean-looking. A desk, a piano, a china cabinet, a few chairs, and a book-case. Light poured in through the thick curtains on the windows.

We sat on a red velvet sofa, speaking with each other for about 10 minutes or so. He told me he knew about this place from a friend.

"You remember old Jacky-boy, right?" Spot asked, nudging my arm with a smile. "The one who used to pull your braids and hang you head first off the docks."

I rolled my eyes as I recalled the memory of Francis Sullivan, one of the most immature boys I had ever met. "How could I forget?"

Spot chuckled. "Well, his girl stays here. She says they treat her well enough. Anyway, I could introduce you if you'd like."

"I did not think Jack could ever settle down with anyone," I scoffed, and Spot gave me a look.

"He grew up, Celly. Don't act too surprised," Spot said with a shrug. We were quiet for a moment, me trying to imagine Jack as grown up and responsible. "Sarah Jacobs."

"What?"

"Jack's girl, her name is Sarah Jacobs," Spot repeated. "She was a green little thing. Didn't know nothing about nothing. She lived with her family over on Duane." His voice dropped to a whisper, as if she was listening around the corner. "Jack met her last year. She's the sister of one of our pals. Anyway, they start seeing each other, he meets her family, etcetera. Then she got pregnant about three months ago."

"Oh," I said, looking at the floor rug. "Jack grew up, huh?"

Spot sighed. "Parents kicked her out of the house, calling her a tramp and all kinds of awful things. Jack didn't have a place of his own, so he couldn't take her in. You remember Medda? She runs that Burlesque House on Baxter Street?"

I nodded.

"Well she recommended that Sarah come to this place cause that's where she started out. From what I hear, Sarah wishes she would've left home sooner."

"It all sounds very troublesome," I replied. Spot's lips left my ear where he was murmuring the story so that no one would overhear it. "Is Jack going to stay with her or…"

Spot opened his mouth to respond but a figure appeared in the entranceway. A curvy yellow-haired woman, dressed in a simple, pale dress walked in and stepped over to us. "Yes?"

"Are you in charge here?" Spot asked, rising to his feet and helping me up.

"I am not," she answered, "Mrs. Corrigan is in the hospital visiting her mother. I am her aide, Ms. Henley. Can I help you?"

"She needs to stay here for a while, if possible," Spot said, his hand resting on my arm as he nodded to me.

"Hmm," Ms. Henley frowned, looking at the two of us, her eyes fixed on Spot's grip on me. "I don't have any private rooms to accommodate her. Autumn is among the times when our establishment is most crowded." She turned her gaze and spoke to me. If you don't mind sharing a room with another woman, then I can find a place for you."

"Not at all," I spoke up, giving a small smile. "How much is the rent?" I had no money with me, knowing full well that the woman would not permit me to stay there for free.

"Rent is 25 cents per night," she replied. I saw Spot's fingers fishing around in his pocket, resurrecting some coins in his palm. He counted out 25 cents and handed it to the woman, paying for one night's lodging.

My eyes thanked him as the woman counted the money, and Spot squeezed my hand in response. Ms. Henley pocketed the coins and handed me a key. She turned to go, but before she left the room, she faced Spot.

"You are not allowed in here," she said to him. "Say your goodbyes or go outside," she said and then left us.

"Well, I guess that's my cue," Spot said with a soft smile. I did not want him to leave, feeling very alone again. "Hey, hang in there. I'll come back tomorrow and fill you in on what you've missed. We'll make a day of it, and I'll take you my side of the Bridge. Make sure you don't fall in the water," he grinned, taking hold of my upper arms and squeezing.

I nodded, smiling up at him. "That sounds like old times. By the way, thank you for helping me. I do not know how I would have done."

Spot smiled, lowering and planting a soft kiss on my forehead. "Hey, I'm happy you're home," he said. "Welcome back, Cel. We've missed ya."

His hand dipped into my jacket pocket and then back out. He nodded to me and then turned and left.

I stood there, putting my hand in the pocket he'd ventured into and pulled out some coins and a few dollars. "Bless him," I whispered, watching the doorway he'd departed from.

I wandered up the creaky stairs, rubbing the cold room key along my fingers. The tiny number on the key matched with a faded number beside one of the doors down the hall. The inside was not warm and welcoming, but it was far better than my cell in the monastery.

After I settled in, a soft bell chimed on the first floor. Women began descending down the stairs and into the dining room from everywhere in the House. It felt like the Sisters of St. Joseph's. I supposed they served dinner.

No one spoke to me nor asked who I was, and I remained seated on the bed in the room that did not look slept in, not very hungry. I wanted someone to ask me downstairs. It was a dreadful feeling but one that I had become accustomed to, the feeling of loneliness in a strange place. I felt homesick for a home I never had, if such a thing was even possible.

I could hear the others assembling downstairs to eat. The aide, Ms. Henley, came upstairs and asked if I was hungry.

"A little," I replied.

"I'm sorry, I didn't get your name," Ms. Henley said.

"Right, how rude of me," I shook my head, offering her a faint smile. "My name is Celestine Fournier."

"Celestine Fournier," Ms. Henley repeated, looking up at the ceiling as if turning it over in her mind. Studying it, analyzing it, memorizing it.

Ms. Henley led me down the rickety stairs onto the first floor where a sizable group of women were dining. She pointed to a chair for me next to four others. A woman with long hair piled into a knot was serving the meal. She looked at me.

"Roasted lamb, flank steak, lentils, cauliflower, milk or water?"

"Lamb, cauliflower, milk and a roll, please," I replied.

"We don't have any rolls," she corrected, heading back into the kitchen. It was off the dining room separated by a swinging set of doors. She returned with my food on a small, tarnished plate which she set down rather roughly in front of me.

I started to nibble at my food, observing the other women as they ate. I did not speak to anyone, and no one spoke to me. Looking around, I tried to guess which one was this Sarah Jacobs, but I could not see the waists enough to judge. If she was four months pregnant, it would be noticeable.

When the women finished eating, they walked over to a table in the corner where Ms. Henley stood to pay their bills. My meal was, again, 25 cents, the same as lodging.

I left the dining room and went back to the front room sofa. The room was a bit cold and smelled of old linen, and I grew somewhat bored. It had been a long enough day as it was. From my place, I watched the women across the hall in another sitting room. They all congregated and talked. I soon realized that I was the only one alone.

One lady read poetry aloud from a leather-bound book as the others listened. Some did needlepoint or knit. Others played a game of cards at a small wooden table. A young woman played the violin to the delight of the other residents.

"Lucinda," one of the needlepoint women called to a young child without taking her eyes off of her work. "Lucinda."

Lucinda was the woman's fidgety daughter, who was louder and more obnoxious than any child her age I'd ever seen. She went out of her way to annoy the other women, and her mother ignored it all.

An older woman kept dozing off in her chair. She would awaken the woman reading poetry became dramatic in her speech.

Knocks came on the door non-stop, and the long-haired woman from before would go to answer it as women came and went. These were all working-class women, from what I could tell, and a few had young children like Lucinda.

As evening came, Ms. Henley approached me. "Is there something troubling you? Are you ill?"

"No, ma'am," I said, a bit caught-off guard by her worry. "Why do you ask?"

"Well, you know," she said, shrugging, "your eyes. They speak louder than your voice."

"I am not troubled or ill," I said in a half-hearted way, which only further reflected my own misery.

"No matter. Whatever your worry or your troubles, they will pass in time. Do you have any work experience?"

"A little, but I doubt if it will be of any use," I answered, my smile faltering as Ms. Henley gave me a questioning look.

"Do you have any interest in being a nanny for small children? Your uniform would be a respectable apron and bonnet," she said.

I bit my lip, fingers digging into the fabric of my skirt. "I have never looked after children, so I guess I do not know," I said.

"Well you'll learn," she insisted. "Every woman here works somewhere."

"Yes, I know," I said in a low whisper.

Sometime later, the bell chimed again for a light supper. I followed the other women to the dining room for the evening meal. It was almost the same as dinner, except the bill was less expensive. More women had gathered.

Afterwards, I joined them in the back parlors where they sat or reclined on the floor. There were not enough chairs.

Again, I passed the evening in loneliness, sitting alone in the dim room on the floor.

I observed two older women, who were lively talking to each other, and I decided that they might be welcoming.

"Excuse me," I said as I approached them. "Could I please join your company?"

They accepted and provided a place for me to sit beside them. I did so, still with my jacket on, which no one offered to take. For a bit, I listened to their exhausting talk, remaining quiet. I kept the same stoic expression on my face. Every now and then I would agree to something or reply if they asked me for my opinion on a trivial matter.

One of the two introduced herself as Mrs. Eva Kanowitz, from Russia by her heavy accent. She explained that they were not boarders, but visiting their friend Ms. Henley. The other of the two, Threasa Prato, had a husband and lived over on McDougal Street. She told me about her daughter, Emilia, who was 10 years of age and had made her first Communion last week.

Mrs. Kanowitz, a Jewish woman from Clinton Street, was also married with a large number of children. One of whom, a girl of seven named Ida, was leading her class in maths as Mrs. Kanowitz announced with pride.

"Where are you from, dear?" Mrs. Kanowitz asked me in her broken English, a sweet smile on her face.

"My mother gave birth to me in France," I admitted, noting the way the two nodded with interest.

"Where in France?" Mrs. Prato asked.

I shrugged. "Paris? But my mother had the accent of Toulouse. Anyway, I grew up in New York."

"What do you do for work?" She asked, looking at my hands which were playing with the fabric of my skirt. "Have you ever done any?"

"Yes, I have in the past. But I am unemployed as of now," I said with a small sigh, knowing I would need to find something sooner or later.

Mrs. Kanowitz explained that she had had a rough ride when she came to America a year ago. She had been laundress, but her husband's declining health forced her to quit to take care of him at home. She said they were even considering moving back to Russia.

A maid came to tell the boarders it was time for bed, and Mrs. Kanowitz and Mrs. Prato made their way to the door to leave.

"Couldn't I stay up a bit longer?" I asked the maid, feeling childish.

She shook her head, insisting that I retire to bed.

"What if I sat out here for a little?"

"No," the maid replied. "The others might think you strange."

I climbed the stairs and unlocked the door of my room. I found a pretty young woman sitting on the bed opposite mine. She dressed in a nightgown, combing out her long brown hair.

I had seen her in the back parlor talking to Mrs. Prato after dinner. "Hello," she greeted me. "Have you seen Mrs. Caruso? I was hoping to borrow something."

"I do not know who that is," I replied, stepping into the room and closing the door behind me. "Is this your room?"

The girl smiled. "Oh, no, this is Mrs. Caruso's room. I suppose you're new. Good luck, the old bat snores," she giggled and gave me a wink.

Before I could say anything, the door opened and a stern-looking woman appeared in the doorway. We both turned and looked at her.

"There you are," the girl said. "Could I borrow some matches? I've used all mine, and I'd like—"

"Who is this?" the woman, Mrs. Caruso, scowled at me, looking me up and down.

The girl paused and looked back at me.

I cleared my throat, my palms sweaty. "C-Celestine," I replied.

Mrs. Caruso folded her arms across her chest. "And what are you doing in my room?"

I looked from the girl to Mrs. Caruso, unsure of why she was acting so hostile. "Ms. Henley told me to stay here," I said, holding up my key. "She gave this to me."

"Did she now?" Mrs. Caruso crossed the room, inspecting my key. She appeared to be analyzing me, her beady eyes making me feel small under her glare. "Where are you from?"

"I…I'm from—"

"From the streets, no doubt," Mrs. Caruso finished, shaking her head as she continued her stern stare. "Well I don't want to be sharing a room with a slum rat. Stealing my things and smuggling in trouble. So, you can pack your things right back up and _get out_."

My mouth was open but no words came out. I felt like a train hit me.

"Hey, that's enough," the girl said, her voice rising as she returned Mrs. Caruso's glare with one of her own. "Leave her alone."

Mrs. Caruso turned to her. She looked as though she had tasted something sour. "Get off of my bed this instant, you little temptress," she demanded, and the girl stood with a sigh. It was then that I noticed the girl was pregnant.

"She can stay with me, then," she said as I grabbed my bag off of the spare bed.

"And you can forget about the matches," Mrs. Caruso said, her hands on her hips as we left the room.

The girl led me to her room that was closer to the stairs. "The girl who stayed here got her own place a few weeks ago," she said with a friendly grin, closing the door behind us. "I'm sorry about old Mrs. Caruso. She's not always like that, you know."

"Right," I tried to smile.

"So, Celestine? That's a pretty name. How old are you?"

"I will be 17 come spring," I replied, watching as she opened a drawer from the bureau. She gestured for me to put my belongings in it.

"Huh, I turned 17 last month," she said, reclining back on her bed with some difficulty. She placed a hand on her belly. "I'm Sarah, by the way."

"Sarah," I repeated as I recalled what Spot had told me. "Sarah Jacobs?"

The girl, Sarah, gave me a funny look. "Do I know you?"

"No," I said. "I am friends with Liam, er, Spot Conlon. He mentioned you stayed here, and that you were…" I trailed off, staring at her stomach.

"Knocked up? It's okay, you can say it," she said, a weak smile on her face. "If you know Spot, then I assume you know Jack Kelly."

"Yes," I replied. "But I have not seen him in a great while. Is he the father?"

Sarah tilted her head, giving a soft nod as she snuggled under the blankets. "He is."

A knock came on the door, and Ms. Henley poked her head in. I assumed she had a skeleton key. "No more talking girls. Sarah, you have work in the morning. Now goodnight."

Sarah said nothing more about Jack or the pregnancy and settled on her back. I changed into my nightgown and placed my belongings from the bag into the drawer that Sarah had pulled out. I took down my hair and climbed into the soft sheets.

Staring at the ceiling in the darkness, I heard Sarah whisper to me, "If you're needing work, I can get you a job. The place I work is always hiring."

I turned to look at her shadowy form on the bed. "That would be perfect. Thank you."

"Goodnight," she whispered, giving a slight yawn.

"Goodnight," I echoed, pulling the blankets further up. For the first time in a long time, I slept well and without a shred of worry or dread.


	6. Skittery

**Thank you to all the lovely reviewers! I appreciate it!**

* * *

It was odd, not having to wake up to the dreadful sound of a wooden clapper echoing off the hallway walls. Soft light pooled into the room through the window that had been slightly opened. I stretched my legs and arms out, curling my toes and relishing in the softness and warmth of the bed.

Looking to my right, I noticed Sarah's bed was neatly made up, yet she was no longer in the room. For a brief moment, I had forgotten where I was. Then all at once, yesterday's events came flooding back to my memory. It didn't seem real. And I was so afraid that if I went to sleep, it would all disappear like a dream.

But there I was. Warm. Safe. Free.

I sat up slowly, looking down at the nightgown I had gotten from the almshouse. It was softer than anything I'd ever owned, and I wished I could wear it all day and just lie in bed. But then I remembered that Spot had promised to take me to Brooklyn that day. The thought of wandering near old stomping grounds made my heart race.

What if things didn't look the same? What if they've all changed? Will I be able to recognize those I once knew? Will they recognize me?

My eyes caught sight of the small, antique-looking clock on the wall, and I panicked. It was nearly 10 o'clock, and I'd almost slept the whole day away.

I shoved the warm blankets off of me and slid out of bed, my bare feet making hitting the chilly floor. I scampered to the bureau, pulling out the same clothes I wore yesterday and changing into them.

I did my best to make my bed look as tidy as Sarah's. Then I began to furiously lace my boots, my fingers turning a shade of red as I pulled at the laces. The whole time I kept a close eye out the window for Spot. My stomach grumbled, and I remembered how hungry I was. Thanks to Spot, I had more than enough to buy breakfast.

As I descended down the stairs, Ms. Henley greeted me with a stern stare from her place at a desk in the parlor. Her spectacles placed firmly on the edge of her nose, her hair pulled immaculately back in a top knot, she set down her newspaper.

"Young lady," she said, her voice full of accusations as I paused and visibly cringed. "You have slept longer than anyone who has ever past through these doors. I expect you will be wanting breakfast. Well then may I remind you that breakfast is served promptly between the hours of six o'clock and eight o'clock in the morning, and not an hour later. I suppose you will learn soon enough the importance of punctuality during your time here, as brief as I judge it will be."

I was too embarrassed and affronted to respond, so I said nothing and nodded solemnly.

She sighed and took off her spectacles, using her handkerchief to polish them. "You may go to the kitchen, if you'd like," she said, putting her spectacles back on and returning to her paper. "If you ask politely and help Cook with whatever she needs done, perhaps your breakfast can be arranged."

Again, I said nothing and began to make my way to the kitchen.

"And young lady," she called, still looking at her newspaper. I stopped in my tracks, my boots squeaking against the floor as I turned. She glanced up at me through her spectacles. "Whatever your name is, what is your name?"

I fiddled with my hands behind my back, wanting this encounter to be over. "Celestine."

"Celestine what?" She asked, articulating every letter.

"Fournier."

Ms. Henley looked me up and down, frowning deeply. "Is that the only ensemble you own?"

I shook my head. "Oh, no I have two other skirts upstairs," I thought for a moment, "and another blouse."

She huffed and gestured with a wave of her hand for me to spin around. I did so, slowly, and she made a 'tsk' noise with her tongue and looked at me as if I was a bothersome pigeon. "And do they all look like that?"

I bit my lip, unsure of what she meant. "I—"

"Where did you get such disastrous garments? You look like the poor little match girl. It is rather depressing to look at you," She said, lowering her newspaper.

"F-from one of the New York missions. They have d-donated clothes in baskets." I stammered, feeling very small under her gaze.

She nodded, as if to say that explains everything. "Well none of my girls will walk out of this establishment dressed as a London street arab or some kind of Parisian trollop. I suppose it is something we'll have to fix, won't we Miss Fournier?"

"I…I suppose so."

"Have one of the girls take you shopping sometime this week," she said nonchalantly with a toss of her hand. "And for heaven's sake, stand up straight and arch your back. You'll become a hunchback if your posture doesn't improve."

I immediately straightened self-consciously.

"There now. That's better," Ms. Henley muttered. "Carry yourself with some dignity. You have a perpetual look about you that makes it seem as though someone's stepped on your foot." She sighed, going back to her newspaper. "You'd better hurry to the kitchen. Your dawdling will only prolong your wait."

Fumbling with my words, I walked to the kitchen feeling a bit dazed. The cook was at the center table with a large apron tied around her waist, dotted with flour, as she rolled out dough with a large rolling pin.

Two maids scuttled about, washing pots and scouring pans with hot water and dish towels. I cleared my throat as I lingered in the doorway, unsure if I was welcome in. I felt as though I was trespassing into sacred ground.

The cook looked over at me, a bit surprised. "Yes?"

"Excuse me, I missed breakfast, and Ms. Henley said that perhaps I could find something to eat in here," I said timidly, watching as one of the maids nudged the other and whispered something, both staring at me.

"Did she?" Cook asked, taking up the dough and slamming it down on the table, pressing her hands into the soft yeast. "Well, I don't normally allow this. But I don't think I've seen you before. You must be new." She nodded to a large bowl of fruit at the center of the table. "Help yourself, but don't get in the habit of missing meals and expecting me to feed you at your own will. No one gets special treatment."

I nodded. "Thank you. It will not happen again," I said, taking a handful of cranberries, as they looked the ripest.

"Yes, well be sure it doesn't," Cook called after me as I left the kitchen.

I stepped out onto the porch, feeling the cool autumn breeze dance through my thin blouse. Ms. Henley may have been onto something. My clothes were hardly suitable for the cold weather.

Sitting down on the front step, I began to eat the cranberries, leaving little red juice stains on my hand, which I quickly wiped off on my patched skirt. I watched as small children walked down the street, holding their mothers' hands, splashing in puddles and picking up soggy leaves and throwing them for amusement.

I was glad not to be that age anymore.

I was so invested in watching them that I didn't notice the person strolling over to the patio until he stood right before me.

"Mornin'," Spot smiled down at me and offered a hand, pulling me to my feet. "I always underestimate the walk over here, otherwise I would've been here earlier."

"No, no, I have only just woken up," I shook my head, dusting off my skirt.

"Only just woken up?" Spot raised his eyebrows, shaking his head. "To sleep in is a luxury that some of us ain't got."

"So, what have you got to show me?" I asked excitedly, pleased to finally be able to explore the city I had left behind.

Spot offered me his arm, which I took with a grin, and we headed off down the street.

Every morning, six days a week, more than one hundred thousand people poured onto the streets of the Lower East Side, headed toward another day's work. Many of the women in my boarding house, I noticed, worked in the city's garment factories.

Many of those that I saw were young women in their teens, some were girls as young as ten. Immigrants, mostly.

The sound of the city was different since I had last looked around. The languages of the people had changed. The Irish and German accents I had remembered hearing on the streets in my youth had morphed into various dialects of the city.

Italian. Yiddish. Russian. Ukrainian. Polish. Their words buzzed and hummed in my ears as we immersed ourselves into the crowd, with me keeping a tight grip on Spot's arm. Yet there was something so releasing about being in the midst of the craziness.

As we stepped out into the overcast light of autumn in the middle of New York, I found it hard not to stare at all the people we passed by. About half a block away from the boarding house, we were in Washington Square, Lower Fifth Avenue. It looked like an ancient Greek revival as we walked along the homes of the affluent. I wondered what kinds of people lived in those great houses. Certainly, they could afford luxuries beyond my thinking.

On the other side, Broadway, was Ladies' Mile, which contained wonderful shops well out of my pitiful price range. Fifth Avenue contained limestone mansions as far as the eye could see. I could look at all kinds of wealth around me.

I couldn't help but admire the women who walked along with parasols and white gloves and hats decorated with flowers and bird feathers. They were so beautiful, those hats. They were so rich. A woman looks so dressed, you know, in the back with a bustle.

Sadly, I remembered back to when I was little, and how much I wanted to grow up to wear earrings and hats and high-heels. I liked music, I liked school. I wanted to learn things. I wanted to learn everything. The only thing was the money and time that I never had enough of.

Spot took me through a few twists and turns until we reached an entirely different part of the city. The atmosphere had changed. It wasn't like the lively market near the boarding house nor was it like the wealthy avenues near Broadway or Washington Square. It was a part of my past that I often thought of, but never fondly.

I looked up at one such building in particular. It was tall and old-looking, with rusting fire escapes and broken windows. I used to creep up on the roof of that tenement and talk out my heart to the stars and the sky. Why were we cramped into the crowded darkness? Why are we wasting with want? Who is America?

Spot noticed I was staring up at it and stopped. "You know it?" He asked, nodding up at the tenement.

I squeezed his arm. "That was my home."

He gave me a funny look, and I knew he must have been confused. "I lived there when I was very small," I further explained, "when we first arrived in the States."

"Ah," Spot looked at the place from the ground to the roof, watching as dirty-looking children played out on one of the fire escapes. "You miss it?"

I shrugged, shivering slightly as the wind blew by. Did I miss it? "No," I said quietly as Spot wrapped his jacket around my shoulders. "Not really."

"Nicer place than where I grew up," Spot said as we continued on. "But I suppose anything beats an orphanage."

"Not anything," I mumbled. I tugged his jacket closer around me. "I met Sarah last evening."

Spot looked over at me as he remembered. "Oh yeah? How is she?"

"She's very nice." I stepped over a puddle and then another. "I cannot imagine how Jack managed to win her," I said with a small smile.

"I saw Jacky-boy just the other night, after I said goodbye to you," Spot said somberly, staring straight ahead at the street. "We grabbed a drink together, and I asked him about his plans."

"His plans?"

"Well, yeah. How much he has saved, where he's looking to buy a flat, when he's going to send for Sarah, those kinds of plans."

"And?"

Spot sighed and shook his head. "Jack ain't dealing with being a father too well. He used to say over and over how much he hated kids, and back when Sarah told him she was pregnant, he looked as though we were going to be sick. And last night, he kept going on about how much he wanted to leave for Santa Fe and escape all this. Granted, he'd had a few pints, but it seemed like his mind was made up."

"Liam," I stopped him, putting a hand on his arm and looking him in the eye. "Is Jack planning on leaving Sarah? Leaving his child?"

Spot looked at the ground and said nothing.

"Oh, that's just like him," I frowned. "Running away when things get too complicated. He's a coward, he always has been."

"Hey," Spot took my hands in his, steadying me. "Jack's no coward. And I don't blame him, frankly. Who the hell wants a kid at eighteen?"

"You mean he doesn't want to marry her?"

Spot shrugged. "I think he really liked Sarah. Maybe even loved her, I don't know. And yes, maybe he would've eventually asked her to marry him, maybe not. But then she goes and gets pregnant. I mean, you gotta admit how shitty this is for him."

I was shocked at his words. "Liked Sarah? Are you saying that just because she is pregnant, he does not want to be with her anymore? And anyway, it's just as much his doing as it is hers. Sarah can't make a baby on her own."

Spot rolled his eyes, laughing slightly. "I know that. I'm just saying, the whole situation is unfortunate."

"You better convince Jack to stay, if not for Sarah, then for his child's sake," I said, making him look me in the eye. "I'm serious, Liam. You have his ear; he'll listen to you."

"I'll try," Spot replied.

"Do more than try," I said, my heart suddenly breaking for Sarah who was completely oblivious to Jack's intentions. "Sarah needs him. She cannot do this alone. She just cannot. It's unfair. It's…"

"Celly," Spot grazed his thumb across my cheeks, catching the teardrops I didn't even realize had escaped. "It's going to be okay."

I paused, shaking my head as my mind drifted to unwanted memories. "I…I apologize. I just…never mind."

Spot studies my face for a while and says softly, "When was the last time you saw him?"

"Jack?"

"No," Spot says, giving me a sad and knowing look. "You know who I mean."

I chewed on my lip, feeling overwhelmed with sudden waves of emotion. A sadness, an anger, a longing. "Years," I managed to whisper, my voice quivering. Of course, I hadn't forgotten him. I dreamt of him while I was at the monastery. I imagined what he looked like, all grown up and handsome.

"Jesus," Spot shook his head, cursing under his breath. "I'm sorry about, well, everything. I don't think I've said that yet, but I truly am sorry for what happened."

"It was not your fault," I said.

"But it wasn't yours either."

I was quiet for a moment. "Where is he? Can I see him?" I asked Spot, gripping his arm tightly, hot tears stinging the corners of my eyes before I could stop them.

Spot sighed and shook his head. "I don't think that would be a good idea."

"Please, Spot," I begged, allowing the tears to roll down my cheeks. "I have not seen him in years. You cannot deny me this. I just want to see him."

"Celly, listen to me. You…" he paused, as if searching for the words. "Like you said, you've been gone for a long time. Things have changed. You might not like those changes."

"I don't care," I said, my voice cracking. "Please, I will not ask for much, I just want to hear his voice. See his face. You do not understand how long I have waited. How many nights I laid awake wondering where he was."

"He may not be how you remember him," Spot said more to the ground than to me.

"Spot, I have waited three damn years. You will take me to him," I said firmly, wiping at my tears and fighting the sting of the wind. "Please."

Seemingly taken aback with my forcefulness, Spot nodded. "Okay," he said quietly, his face remaining in a saddened expression.

I followed him through dingy alleyways and narrow side streets, the sight of filth and desperation making me feel uneasy. Spot told me to stay close to him as we made our way deeper into slums of the city.

Miserable-looking women held screaming babies, cigarettes dangling from their fingers. Men lingered around the side of buildings, drinking or talking in small circles. I was given a few curious looks, but Spot kept his gaze straight ahead and pulled me along.

Although the afternoon was cold, the streets were teeming with people. Women with faces painted like circus fortune tellers threw themselves at any man sober enough to stand. Sounds of laughter and fighting filtered out from garish saloons with names such as The Little Venice, Lucifer's Den, and McGurk's Hall.

In the midst of all this highlife were beggars and the sickly, looking for charity, scrounging for garbage in the street. One weasel-like man with a thick accent battled a crippled boy for a meager scrap of food. A richly-dressed woman in a fine hat, riding by in a street car, hid her eyes by raising a huge bouquet of New England Aster flowers in front of her face.

"Still how you remember it?" Spot asks beside me, making me jump.

"I forgot how lively it is."

Three women, exquisitely costumed, burst from the door of The Little Venice. Under the harsh glare of a nearby gas lamp, their faces were no longer striking. I stared. There was something not right about those faces.

I saw one of the woman's faces, suddenly harsh under the gaslight. Under thickly caked makeup was a smiling transvestite.

Spot took me around a corner, cautioning me of where I was stepping. I looked down to see a young man in his twenties covered in grime and mud, face down on the ground.

"Is he drunk?" I asked as Spot stepped over him, helping me do the same.

Spot nudged the man's body over with the toe of his boot, and I gasped at the sight of the dried blood around the open wound on his throat. Spot said nothing and gestured to a hidden door on the side of a building, almost completely secluded.

"In there?" I asked, looking up at the seedy-looking dive, noises of shouts and rowdy laughter coming from within. It smelled of rotten food and alcohol and something else that I couldn't quite place.

"Come on," Spot mumbled and opened the door. The front room was crowded with people. Most were drinking out of tarnished cups while a man served spirits behind a bar. Another man played music on a piano in the corner. I coughed from the cigar smoke being blown in my face, but Spot didn't seem to notice as he kept moving.

I followed Spot through the crowded pub, never letting go of his hand. We climbed a back staircase and walked down a long hall with rooms lining each side. Middle-aged women dressed in revealing clothing with gaudy-looking makeup reclined in the doorways, staring at the both of us as we passed by.

One woman placed a hand full of bracelets on Spot's shoulder. "Would you like to spend some time with me, young man?" She asked, moving her hand to her corset suggestively.

Spot nudged her out of the way, and I felt his grip on my hand tighten. The woman scowled at me and retreated to one of the rooms.

We climbed yet another set of stairs, and then a fourth set, and this time I could smell whatever the mysterious odor was a lot more. It was strong and unlike anything I'd ever known. As we stepped into a back room, secluded and well-hidden in the building, the scent hit me hard.

It was smoky and hazy, and I felt dizzy just from stepping inside. Spot's hand never left mine, and I was grateful for that.

Lounging about were young men, who couldn't be older than Spot or me, slumped in corners and on rotting sofas. Their clothes had seen better days, ripping at the seams and hanging off them like rags. Most were barefoot or had boots that were coming apart. Their eyes were half-closed or glass-looking, staring off into oblivion. Few noticed our presence.

As we walked further into the room, I noticed a group of small girls, many of whom looked to be around eleven or twelve, but a few looked older. They seemed to be waiting for something, sitting in the center of the room. I wondered what in the world these delicate creatures were doing in such an awful place.

While Spot left me momentarily to go look for someone, I saw one the boys emerge from a back room with something in his hand. It looked like a needle or syringe, something a medical doctor would use on his patients. Unlike the immovable boys around the room, he seemed alert and uninfluenced by whatever spell the others were under.

The group of girls sat up a little straighter, excited by whatever he held in his hand.

"Give me your arm," he said to one child with a pale purple ribbon in her hair. She did so quickly, rolling up her sleeve and holding out her fragile little arm. He took it and pricked her skin with the needle, pressing his thumb down the syringe and injecting whatever it was. The girl winced for a moment, and then her eyes went dull.

She giggled a bit and began to reel, swaying as she struggled to sit upright.

"You okay?" The boy asked, giving her a sideways look, his tone only semi-concerned.

The girl gave a wide, goofy grin and nodded dizzily.

He shook the syringe, taking the arm of the girl next to her. "Feels good?"

Again, she nodded with a small giggle.

I watched with a nervous churn in my stomach as he injected the next child.

Turning my attention away, I saw Spot talking to another boy who had been smoking a long pipe in one of the corners, blowing out thick clouds of white, puffy smoke. The boy stood up and with some difficulty of walking straight, made his way over to me with Spot.

"Well you just keep telling your boys to send them our way," the boy was saying to Spot, speaking with an Eastern accent of some kind, his blue eyes hazy and reddened. "How many does that make in the last week? Nine?"

"Cops are getting wise to the game, Alexei," Spot said, clapping the boy on the back. "How's business anyway?"

The boy, Alexei, gave a lopsided grin as part of his golden hair flopped into his eyes under his cap. "Oh, you know. Just fair."

"Not if you're smoking too much of the merchandise," Spot said, and they both laughed.

Alexei turned to look at me lazily, as if noticing me for the first time. "Where'd you find this one?"

Spot took my arm protectively and nodded to me. "No. No, no, no," he chuckled quickly, though I could tell it was forced. "Alexei, she's a friend. This is Celestine."

Alexei smiled, taking my hand and giving it a gentle kiss. I felt an unwanted blush creep to my cheeks as he winked at me. "Oh, I beg your pardon. Pleasure to meet you."

I wished I could say the same, but there was something about this boy that made me want to turn around and run out of the place. "You, too."

"Well, any friend of Spot Conlon's is welcome here," Alexei smirked, his eyelids drooping, looking like someone who hadn't slept in weeks. "You from Brooklyn, too?"

Before I could say anything, one of the little girls teetered over to Alexei, her pale eyes glazed, her movements dream-like. I looked over to the group of them where the same boy was still injecting their arms full of whatever drug it was.

She pulled on Alexei's arm, wishing to get his attention, her long hair falling in her face. With movements as lethargic as hers, Alexei looked down at her. "I wanna smoke," she whined like a small puppy, pulling on his arm and looking up at him with pleading eyes. "Please, I wanna smoke so bad. And he won't let me," she cried, looking over at the boy with the syringe who was now staring at us.

He shrugged at Alexei, pointing to her. "I told her she had to ask you, boss," he stated nonchalantly.

I looked at Spot, my apprehension painted on my face. Where in the world had Spot taken me? What did any of this have to do with anything?

"Get off me," Alexei growled, practically shaking her off his arm like a pesky fly.

I looked down at the little girl who made a pouting face, though she seemed to be under the influence of whatever had been introduced into her bloodstream.

She knelt in front of him, still mewling like a wounded cat, her hands trailing upwards to the waistband of his trousers. "Please, I need to smoke," she begged, pulling at the buttons and moving her fingers up to tug at his suspenders. "I'll do anything."

Spot cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable with this display. "Um, we're actually looking for Skittery. Is he here?"

Alexei looked from the girl back up to Spot. "Skittery? Yeah, he's here. In the back."

Spot nodded. "Thanks," he said, gently guiding me to a door in the back corner of the room. I turned, my eyes going back to the girl and Alexei, worry filling me. He grabbed her shoulders and shook her, yelling something inaudible as she crumpled to the floor like a withering flower.

Where was that child's mother? Where were any of their mothers?

I side-stepped by the rest of the little girls who were now milling about on the floor sleepily, a few of them giggling uncontrollably. Others were stone quiet. The older boys took turns self-administering the injections or taking puffs out of the pipe. While they did not mind giving the smaller girls a dose of the syringe when they asked, they were not easily persuaded to let them smoke out of the pipe.

"Where in God's name are we, Spot?" I whispered to him, my voice rising.

Spot said nothing but gave me a saddened look. Before he opened the door, he said quietly in a low voice, "Are you sure you want to see him?"

Now I was frightened. After all that I had encountered, I was not at all sure I was prepared for who I'd find behind that door. Still, I nodded and waited for Spot to open the door.

"I am not going to do anything irrational, Spot. Just open the door please."

The room was darker but a lot less stuffy and smoke-filled than the other room. Spot closed the door behind us. A few intimidating-looking boys sat near the sides of the room at tables, drinking glasses of liquor, playing cards and shooting craps.

I noticed yet another cluster of girls about the same age as the ones in the front room. They were scantily-clad and deathly-looking, thin and hollow-eyed. They sat on the laps of the young men, burying their lips in the necks of the boys they fought to win attention from.

"Conlon," a hoarse-sounding voice called out, and the two of us turned to see a red-haired girl make her way over to us. She looked about my age and was dressed in nothing but her chemise and bloomers, a pink ribbon holding back pieces of her messy hair. "I've missed seeing ya handsome face 'round 'Hattan," she cooed in a heavy accent of the streets, with all of her 'r's' sounding like 'ah's'.

"Hiya, Sonia," Spot said good-naturedly. "I've been a little preoccupied with things in Brooklyn."

Sonia frowned, her plump lips pouty and bright red. "I always look for ya when your Brooklyn boys come to visit, but you ain't been here in so long. I thought you found another joint ya liked better." She draped her arms around him, grinning against his collar. "You wanna smoke a little? We got some new stuff in from a doctor in Queens yesterday. It'll make ya feel really good."

Spot laughed a little, gently bringing her arms off of him. "No thanks, Sonia. Right now, I'm looking for Skittery. I have someone who wants to see him."

Sonia looked over at me, a little smile forming on her lips. "Are you looking for Skittery? He's a little busy with a customer right now." She touched my hair, and I wanted to flinch and pull away but I stayed put. "Your hair is so soft, so beautiful. You gotta tell me how ya do it."

Spot craned his neck around, looking at the boys in the room. "I see him," Spot murmured to me. "I'll talk to you later, Sonia," he said, taking me over to the corner of the room where a tall young man sat at one of the tables with two other boys and one of the littler girls. Something about her seemed so familiar.

And then I recognized two people at once.

Estelle. Skittery.

They hadn't noticed us yet, and I watched as one of the boys wrote something down in a ledger and the other boy collected bits of metal and other scraps that little Estelle handed him, inspecting each item.

"Which do you want?" Skittery asked her in a voice devoid of emotion.

"One of each, please," Estelle said politely and quietly, looking surprisingly at ease in this environment. To my eyes, she seemed so out of place.

Skittery reached into a secret hole in the peeling wallpaper and pulled out three small, brown bottles and handed them to Estelle. She took them and tucked them into her little pocket. The boy with the ledger helped her down from the tall chair and before she could walk away, Skittery called after her, "Hey, you stay away from that stuff, you hear me? Bring it straight to him, and don't try a single drop on the way."

Something in his voice sounded broken. Estelle nodded and turned to leave. She saw me first.

"Estelle!" I shrieked, having reached the end of my patience for whatever den of vice and misery this place was that catered to arrant vagabonds and innocent little girls. Spot looked at me, caution in his eyes, silently telling me to stop, but I could not bear the thought of something happening to her. "What the hell are you doing here?" I knelt down to the stunned child, clasping her face in my hands, bringing her close to me. I quickly searched her pocket for the bottles and pulled them out, reading the labels with trembling fingers.

Spot shifted anxiously on his feet as the attention in the room moved toward us. I glared at the boys around the table, including Skittery. "You're selling opium and… what is this?" I read the others labels. "Laudanum? You're selling chloral fucking hydrate to children!" I yelled, smashing the bottles on floor. The glass exploded and the colorless liquid seeped out onto the floorboards.

The room had grown silent and all eyes were on us. "How dare you!" I had never been so furious in my life. I had never shouted as loudly as I had at that moment.

"Celly, I think it's time we left," Spot said in my ear, taking my arm and trying to drag me to the door. "I knew this was a bad idea."

"Get your fucking hands off me!" I yelled, pulling back with such force that Spot let go almost immediately. "I hope you boys realize the evil nature of your actions! These are babies, and you're taking advantage of them, you bastards!"

Estelle was staring up at me with wide eyes, mouth agape. In fact, nearly everyone in the room was. A few, who were too drug-induced to function, merely looked confused. Estelle began to back away, her eyes filling with tears and her lip quivering.

"Ah, shit," Spot mumbled as Estelle began to cry.

"Oh, no," I whispered to myself, realizing I must have scared the poor child. I dropped to my knees in front of her, not caring if the bits of glass cut into my skirt. "It's alright, you're okay. I didn't mean to shout. I'm sorry, Estelle, please."

Estelle stepped away from me, recoiling into herself. Spot stepped over and knelt down next to her. "You wanna go outside?" He asked her softly, and she looked up at him and nodded. Spot scooped her tiny frame up into his arms and turned to me. "Nothing irrational, huh?" He frowned.

"I—"

"I'll be right back." He turned away, carrying Estelle out of the room.

I remained on the floor, bewildered as to all that had just happened. How was I in the wrong? How was this my fault?

The door swung open, and Alexei stood there, one suspender dangling from his shoulder, a pipe in his left hand. "What the hell is going on?" He looked at the broken bottles on the floor in anger. "Who the fuck broke those?"

His voice sounded dangerous. I squirmed nervously and rose to my feet. Immediately, his eyes went to me. Alexei swayed slightly in the doorway, glaring at me. "You," he chuckled in a way that made me quiver. His tone softened as he crossed the room and stepped over the broken shards. "You're the one who was looking for Skittery," he smirked. "I see you found him."

He looked past me at Skittery and nodded. "Whatever you gave her, Skits, throw it out. It's obviously one dose too strong," he snickered.

I turned and noticed Skittery had his eyes glued to me. I wondered how long he'd been staring at me, when he realized who I was. He looked like he'd seen a ghost.

Slowly, Skittery made his way over to me, his eyes concentrated on my face, disbelieving and curious. He opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out. He raised his hands to my face, wanting to touch me, but he froze and then let his hands back down to his sides.

My eyes watery and my rage overtaking me, I reached out and slapped the boy I had been waiting three years to embrace clean across the face. Skittery didn't seem fazed by the slap and continued to look at me with distrusting eyes.

"Easy," Alexei grabbed me tightly, making me cry out from the pressure he put on my forearm. For someone under the influence of opioids, he still maintained an incredible amount of strength. He took a strand of my hair, playing with it as if I were a doll. "Why don't you go lie down for a while?"

"No, I don't want to lie down," I said, feeling like I wanted to cry.

"Leave her be." Sonia appeared, placing a hand on Alexei's arm. "I'll take her," she said, turning to me with a soft smile. "Come on, sweetie. Let's go out there and talk, just you and me. You can tell me all about it," she said, taking my hand as Alexei released his tight grip on me. "Boys got no sense of feelings at all. They're all animals."

I allowed myself to be led toward the door by Sonia who kept speaking reassurances to me in the sing-song Manhattan accent of hers, as if nothing had just happened. I looked back at Skittery who still had the same haunted look on his face as he watched me go while the other boys cleaned up the broken bottles.

I wished he'd run to me, call out something, anything. But he couldn't or wouldn't.

Sonia led me past the front room and all the way down and out of the building. Spot was leaning next to the building; Estelle was gone.

"There ya go, just have a seat," Sonia said sweetly, helping me down to the ground to sit. She turned to Spot, patting his chest. "She's a real pretty-looking thing, but I don't think she's all there," she said not-so-quietly in Spot's ear.

Spot closed his eyes and then opened them tiredly. "I should never have brought you here. This is all my fault," he said to me, and I could tell he meant it.

"No, I wanted to come," I said numbly, the fumes of the spilled laudanum coming off skirt made my head feel dizzy. "I think…I think I would like to go back to the boarding house now."

"Yeah, I think that might be best," Spot mumbled, helping me back to my feet. He gave Sonia a small kiss on the cheek, and she gave me a small smile, touching my arm.

"Feel better, Christine," she said kindly and then went back inside.

"Celestine," I corrected in a monotone though she was no longer there to hear it.

The walk back to the boarding house was quiet and tense, and I could tell Spot felt terribly guilty. When we reached the house, I turned to walk up to the patio, but Spot touched my arm, stopping me. "Celly, are you sure you're okay? I mean, of course you're not. But…I'm sorry."

I was quiet, staring up at the late afternoon sun above the tall buildings. "Seeing him today, with all of those dreadful lowlifes, tempting young girls with narcotics and God knows what else. He looked at me like he didn't even know who I was. Quite honestly, I'm not sure I recognize him either."

Spot sighed sadly. "He's not as bad as you think he is. It's just the way it looked."

"Well how is it supposed to look?" I asked, my voice shaking. I bit my lip, looking Spot in the eye. "I often wonder if things would have been different had I not gotten into trouble and sent away. I cried for him almost every night in that bloody convent. Every damn night. Not for my mother, not for my sisters. For him."

Spot looked at me, his eyes full of concern. "Believe me, he tried to find out where you had gone. He tried everything he could. No one knew where you had been sent. We couldn't find you, Celly." He squeezed my hand once he saw my incredulous look. "After you left, Skittery wasn't the same. He…stopped caring about everything."

"That is no excuse for what he is getting himself involved with now," I spat, the anger rising back to my voice. "Spot, I saw myself in that horrible place today," I sniffled, my voice quivering. "That little girl, hanging off of Alexei, doing anything those boys wanted for opium. That little girl was me not five years ago. You know this. Jack knows this. Skittery knows this. He's the one who took me a way from all of it. Now he's become the thing he worked so hard to pull me away from. I don't understand."

Spot swallowed, staring down at his boots. "I'm sorry," he said finally in a low voice, without much hope in it. "A lot has changed, Celestine. You have to know this."

I bit my lip, amazed at Spot's lack of concern. Without another word, I turned and headed toward the boarding house.

"Celly, wait!" Spot yelled, but I continued walking. I swung open the door and closed it behind me, shutting out his calls for me.

Hours ago, I had been hopeful for what the future had to bring. And now, with a heavy heart, I wanted nothing more than to forget all that I had seen. The darkness of the city had stayed right where I had left it. I just didn't expect it to find me so soon.

If those around me had truly changed as Spot had said, then I supposed it was time for me to make a few changes as well, for better or for worse.


	7. Hole In The Wall

"Can't believe all the children that are buried here," I mused, tracing my fingertips along the cool tops of the gravestones, reading the names of the unfortunate young ones sleeping below. _Michael_ _Adler, age 14_. _Margaret Lederman, age 11_. _Joseph Weintraub, age 5_

It made me shiver, despite the absence of any wind and the sun high above the sky. I pulled the heavy sweater I had borrowed from Sarah tighter around me.

Though November, the weather was still fairly mild. The autumn foliage was just at its peak color; the trees had almost lost all their leaves, creating a mess of crunchy dead piles scattered along the ground.

Far off along the city's grounds, Sarah and I raced around through a cemetery, laughing and chasing each other like a couple of overexcited children. It was a relief from an already difficult day. I had managed to get fired on my first day of work that Sarah had brought me to.

Too mouthy. Disobedient. Rude. _Smart-ass._

That's what I had been called by the over-looker. I had only asked for him to open a window. The sewing factory was so intolerably humid on the inside, steam coating the glass panes and leaving droplets of sweat on the foreheads of the young girls and elderly women who worked there.

I couldn't believe the conditions. No one seemed to be complaining, so I made the suggestion myself. Sarah had squeezed my arm as the factory's foreman told me to sit down at the machine and shut up.

When I argued that his workers looked ready to pass out, my pay was docked.

A few more remarks later, and I was released from my position before I even started it.

Sarah had followed me out, despite the warning of her boss that if she left, she would not be welcome back. She left anyway.

We walked and wandered through the cemetery, with me pausing to read some of the headstones. It was a graveyard for those without identity, no friends or family, for criminals. The city's unwanted; those who couldn't afford a proper funeral.

"You think we'll be buried here, too?" I wondered aloud.

"That would make sense, wouldn't it," Sarah replied from a few feet behind me, collecting the leaves on the ground and forming a bouquet of vibrant yellows, and sunset reds, and faded browns. "But I hope not. That would mean I never got out of here."

I stared down silently at the ground, watching an ant crawl over my boot. I heard Sarah come up beside me, throwing her leaf bouquet over her shoulder. "I guess I just didn't realize it was really going to be like this," I sighed.

"Like what?" Sarah asked.

"That we'd really be spending our complete and total lives here, never leaving," I said, shaking my boot so the ant fell off and disappeared into the grass. I looked back up at her. "I always wanted to travel."

Sarah shook her head. "Who cares, people are the same everywhere, the city doesn't have a monopoly on misery. . ." She trailed off, looking over at my crestfallen expression. Sarah offered a weak smile in response. "Don't you think just knowing it isn't any different in other places, knowing its not like in the storybooks, a happy ending I mean – Don't you think that puts it all into perspective?"

"I suppose," I said with a shrug, unsure at her conclusions yet knowing she was hoping otherwise. She clearly had come to have this outlook on life for her own reasons, broken down by life's cruel tricks.

"So, why'd you come back to Manhattan then?"

I felt my cheeks drain as I thought of an answer. I was embarrassed by the reason. How foolish I was to think Skittery would be waiting for me as if nothing changed. As if our lives weren't forever altered.

"Revenge," I said quietly.

"What?" Sarah scrunched up her nose.

I shook my head. "I guess I missed my friends," I replied a little louder, looking over at her, my eyes squinting in the sunlight. "I wanted to come back to New York for them, because they're my family…" I sighed, suddenly feeling stupid. "It just seemed so romantic and freeing and complete and everything."

I paused, noting her wry smile. "I just wanted my own happy ending."

Sarah nodded. "I understand."

I could tell she wanted to ask more. She opened her mouth and then closed it again, looking up at the sky with a hand over her eyes for shield. "We should probably head back. It'll be dark by the time we get there."

"Sarah," I said, touching her wrist as she walked by. "What are you going to do now that you can't go back to the factory?"

She looked thoughtful for a moment and then raised an eyebrow. "Got any ideas? Not many folks out there willing to hire a pregnant girl without a ring."

I bit my lip, watching the tall, brownish grass sway in the slight breeze. "I'm sorry," I said, sensing the hint of anger in her voice.

 _Dammit, Jack._

"It just bothers me, you know," I heard her say as she looped her arm through mine, the two of us walking back toward the city. "I just think of how in love Jack and I were. All the things we could be doing, if things were different, if I wasn't pregnant," she said bitterly. "The other girls I knew from school, they're all just doing normal young things with their beaus – Going to vitascope shows, ice-skating, watching the sunset in the park, going on proper dates. And…"

"And what?"

Sarah paused for a moment. She looked afraid to even say the word. "You know," she whispered, regret in her voice. "Getting married."

I looked at her, saddened then immediately kept my eyes trained on the horizon. I knew then that marriage was something she was clinging to because it represented security. If things with Jack really were as bad as they seemed to be, perhaps she thought matrimony would fix their problems.

"Oh, don't tell me you've never dreamt of it. Every girl does, even if it'll never happen, some just won't admit it," Sarah said.

"Well how could you know that?" I replied. "How could you know I want it?"

"Because every girl does," Sarah continued, not believing a word I said. "It's respectable. It's more respectable than where I am now."

I frowned. "Well, I don't want it."

I felt Sarah's eyes on me as I kept staring straight ahead, nearing the streets.

"Have you ever kissed a boy, Celestine? Before you left, I mean," She asked quietly, taking my contrary response as naivety. "Anything of that sort?"

I nodded, not sure as to where she was going. It certainly wouldn't make me look wild in her eyes, given her own circumstance. "When was the first time you and Jack kissed?"

Sarah thought for a moment. "The day the strike ended. In front of everyone." She chewed on her lip at the memory. "It was sweet actually. But I bet it made me look loose in the eyes of the other boys. I heard them saying some very crude things about me to Jack afterwards."

I suddenly frowned a little deeper. Jack's boys were no saints, but they had always been complete gentlemen around me; then again, after what I had seen, people change. "I'm sorry, you didn't deserve that."

We were both silent again. Sarah stared off at the setting sun, abruptly giving a sardonic laugh.

"What is it?" I asked, squeezing her hand.

"I hate this," Sarah mumbled. "It's like a bad dream that I can't escape from."

We had reached the street the boarding house was on, and Sarah stopped walking, the two of us on the sidewalk across from Tibby's.

"No, I don't know. I'm just being dramatic," she sighed, folding her arms protectively over her chest. "I just wish Jack would…"

"Sarah," I said, choosing my words carefully. "I'm going to ask you something rather forward, and I don't want you to be upset with me."

Sarah looked at me with reservation in her eyes, as if she already knew the question and had taken offense to it.

"Before this," I began, gesturing to her slightly swollen belly. "Did you know how to avoid…?"

Sarah's cheeks turned a rosy color, and she looked away, embarrassed. "Getting pregnant?" She finished, fidgeting with her shawl. "No. But had I known what I do now, I would've asked, no I would've insisted that he be extra careful." She faltered, shaking her head, visibly angry, staring off into the street.

I turned her chin softly toward me. "Didn't Jack know? He had to have known to use protection or at least have enough sense—"

"It wasn't his fault," Sarah interrupted me, sniffling, her steps quickening. "He was drunk, okay? He wasn't thinking clearly."

"He was drunk," I nodded dumbly, remembering how Spot had told me about his conversation with a very sautéed Jack. "Since when does Jack drink?"

Sarah barked out a dry laugh. "You really have been gone for a long time."

"Were you drunk, too?"

"No," she said quickly, shaking her head. "I was trying to help him down the street, back to the lodging house, but he was dragging his feet, not wanting to go home."

"Why not?"

Sarah shrugged, looking up at the sun setting behind the high-rise buildings. "Something about how the superintendent wouldn't let him in if he turned up drunk." She sighed, her eyes moving to mine. "I guess it had happened before, and he'd already had his final warning."

I leaned against a lamppost, gaging how uncomfortable Sarah was becoming from her expression. "Jack never drank when I was around," I mumbled, staring at the ground. "He made it clear to me that he didn't want to follow in his father's footsteps."

"His father's an alcoholic," Sarah guessed.

"I always assumed so, the way Jack talked about him," I said with a shrug. "So where did Jack go if he couldn't go back to the lodging house?"

"Back to my family's flat," Sarah answered. "No one was home. My brothers and parents were visiting my aunt in Poughkeepsie, and I had stayed behind for work. Anyway, I couldn't let Jack sleep in my parents' bed, and I was washing the sheets on the bed my brothers shared, so the two of us got into mine."

Sarah paused, and I could tell she no longer wished to remain eye contact with me as she continued. Something about her face made my stomach do a small flip. "I was sleeping as far as I could to the window so it wouldn't be completely wrong. Jack was still so drunk." Sarah went on, her voice lowered. "The room was dark, and I had my back to him. I couldn't tell if he was asleep or not for some time, and just as I was about to close my eyes, he began pulling at my dress—"

Sarah stopped short in her sentence, and her eyes looked watery, her lips pursing. I suddenly realized where her story might be headed, and I was torn between allowing her to continue or stopping her. "Sarah, I'm sorry. You don't have to tell me."

She nodded, looking down and shrugging. "I don't mind. It actually helps me a bit, I think," she added, seemingly satisfied with me as her confidante. "I have to tell someone, I suppose." She took a deep breath, calming herself. "I don't want to offend you with the details, most of which I don't quite remember myself, but I do remember crying, quietly crying. Just looking out of that _goddamn window_ the rest of the night as he was on top of me."

"Sarah…" I stopped myself, my eyes wild, wanting to throw my arms around her and kick the lamppost behind me.

"It's okay," she replied, still not looking me in the eye, her voice higher-pitched than usual, as if she was choking.

"It's not," I said firmly, watching her wilt under my gaze, her hand going to her swollen belly. "How long—"

"The whole night," Sarah said shakily, wiping her nose with the back of her hand, tilting her head back to keep the tears from spilling. "He didn't leave me alone the whole night. Even after he stopped and fell asleep, I couldn't. I just kept staring out the window, shaking, watching the sunrise."

She brought her eyes to mine, and I could see the redness, the tears beginning to fall regardless of her efforts. "After he left, I threw the dress away for good, washed the sheets, and bathed. But no amount of soap could wash that feeling away, no matter how hard I scrubbed. My mother could tell something was wrong when she came home. But I couldn't tell her what happened. How could I?"

I stood there, blinking away my own tears. "I know what you mean," I sighed with a small nod. "You think it's your fault. You feel ashamed."

Sarah nodded fervently, wrapping her arms tightly around herself. "Celestine, I did nothing, nothing to stop him. I should have screamed or kicked or something. But I couldn't. I just froze there, shaking, and looking out that fucking window."

"Have you told anyone about what happened?"

Sarah shook her head, wiping her eyes. "No. You're the only one who knows the truth." A look of panic crossed her face. "And you mustn't tell anyone, Celestine, please. Promise me you won't tell."

I embraced her in a hug, and as soon as I did so, it was like she melted. She began shaking as tears rolled uncontrollably, her cries echoing in my ears. "I won't tell, I promise. I promise." Another thought crossed my mind, and I hesitated to ask.

"Does Jack know what happened? I mean, does he remember?"

Sarah shrugged, trying in vain to stop her tears. "He never brought it up, never mentioned it. I don't think any of his friends know what happened either. I'm too ashamed to ask him. Of course, when I found out I was having his child, I told him and he did not seem all that shocked, but he was so…infuriated with me."

I hugged her again, tightly, as she collapsed into another fit of tears. "Sarah, I'm so sorry. It's not your fault. None of it is your fault, do you hear me?"

Sarah didn't say anything. She took my hands and squeezed them, smiling sadly at me. "I'm so relieved you're here, Celestine. You're a dear friend."

I smiled back, rather touched. "I've never had any real friends who are girls, outside my family, that is," I admitted, feeling somewhat inadequate in that moment.

"You do now," she said definitively, wiping away the rest of her tears.

She looked over at Tibby's restaurant, noticing the glow the nightlife that poured in through its windows. "Go have a drink for me. I know I'd need one if someone told me all that I've told you," she said, trying to regain her usual demeaner.

"No, that's okay. I'll come in with you. I don't want to leave you now, after all that—"

"I'll be fine," Sarah said with a soft smile. "I'm going to bed anyway. Feeling a bit dizzy," she said, turning on her heels toward the door.

I remained against the lamppost. "I'll try not to wake you when I come back to the room," I said, giving her a regretful wave. In truth, I was hesitant to let her go in, afraid she would no doubt spiral back into a fit of cries once she closed our bedroom door. I was worried that I had unintentionally rehashed a blocked, painful memory that Sarah had not yet come to terms with. One thing was for sure, and that was I had just lost a considerable amount of respect for Jack Kelly, and yet I felt a sense of unsurprise at the same time.

That evening after my walk with Sarah, I ran into none other than Spot Conlon and the redhead Sonia near the corner of Twenty-Sixth Street and Fifth Avenue. I had not seen him since the run-in with Estelle and Skittery the other day, and he seemed to greet me with the same look of apprehension that I displayed. Not having it in me to give him ill treatment, I broke the ice with nod and a polite smile.

"For a loyal Brooklynite, you sure spend a lot of time in Manhattan," I mused, as he tipped in hat in greeting.

Spot told me he and Sonia were on their way to grab drinks with some old friends in the back room of a pub I had almost forgotten existed, The Hole In The Wall. He invited me to come along, saying I would be most welcomed by those they were meeting. We approached the tenement-like building from the Manhattan side, where the pub was located, then turned right at Pearl Street and reached the pub under the Brooklyn Bridge. Spot led us to a set of stairs leading down to a darkened cellar. My head began to swim from exhaustion, and I already dreaded the long walk back to the boarding house. We walked down the steps and opened the door to go inside, and immediately we were greeted by Ms. Lena Vogel.

I recognized the tall, dark-haired woman almost instantly. She had left her entire family behind in Vienna when she came to America as a young girl, and she had given up a career as a prostitute to take over the pub after the owner One-Armed Charley, who had been a former client, went missing over a failure to pay his graft to the Dead Rabbits. At least, that's who ran things around this part of town while I was gone. Now it was the territory of the Five Points Gang, who had since merged with the Dead Rabbits. Lena could not have been better suited to the task of dealing with the gang's visits: smooth, neat, and forever diplomatic, she attended to each aspect without an appearance of concern tapering her huge eyes or perturbing a hair of her scruffy top-knot.

"Mr. Conlon," she said in her Austrian-American accent as we loomed, shaking our hands and grinning carefully. "And Miss Gotti. Always a treat, friends, 'specially at once. And don't tell me that's Miss Fournier, too – it's been a while since you've come around. I'm thankful that you're back." That was Lena's way of saying she understood that I had been through a lot since I'd gotten sent to the Sisters. After all, she was one of the few people who knew the truth. "Your other company, Conlon, are here, and sitting in the back." She went on as she took our coats.

"Sweet, as always, Lena," Spot answered. "Thank you."

"You're welcome to go on back," Lena said. "Annie is, as usual, waiting."

"Ha!" I said, at the mention of the Hole In The Wall's bright bartender. "I hope she's in good spirits as ever?"

Lena grinned again, that same mild arc of the mouth. "I think she's been mixing a barrel of All Sorts again. This way, friends."

We trailed Lena through the papered walls, wooden furniture, and paneled ceiling of the front of the pub and then away to the secluded brick room in the very back. Jack Kelly and Racetrack Higgins were already placed at a large but rotting table, looking somewhat confused. Their bafflement increased when they saw me, having not seen me for years; but I rather warily avoided their queries, saying that I had been in the neighborhood, having escaped my imprisonment.

"So you have," Jack Kelly replied, the brown eyes to either side of the slender nose narrowing with uneasiness. "This ain't – I mean, this ain't some kind of hallucination, is it? I'm a man who can handle my liquor, but – I mean, seeing you here for the first time in three years, I'm beginning to question my tolerance…"

"Not that we ain't happy you're here," Racetrack said quickly, sniffling painfully and then wiping his nose with a bandana as Annie arrived with glasses of whiskey.

"Settle down, fellas," Spot said. "This is no hallucination. Anyway, you're here to talk about your affiliation with those who have been stealing my business." With that, the two former Manhattan newsies exhaled substantial volumes of breath and downed the whiskey. "You ain't," Spot went on, "in especially good standing with One-Lung, are ya's?"

The two 'Hatteners exchanged a glance, and Racetrack shook his head at Jack, who said: "Nah, Spot. One-Lung aims to move his operations onto your turf with his cronies, and he knows our history with you, I mean, where our loyalties are, that is. Race – as well as Mush – and I have started to break off ties as gently as we can, which made One-Lung real antsy. That, and our – constant run-ins with his right hands, the Delancey's."

Spot shrugged; it was no secret how the Gopher Gang revered the Delancey brothers as two of their favorite goons. "Right then, fellas," Spot said. "I guess you should tell me what you learned today."

After quarreling for a second about the facts, Racetrack spoke:

"As you know, Spot, the Gophers ain't taking kindly to your resistance in cooperating. Even so, I think we discovered some interesting information from Morris Delancey when he was shooting his mouth off about soaking a couple of Alexei's boys for their opium supply. First, he said he gave Skittery a good soaking – shit, Cel, how much do you know?"

I gave him a weak half-smile. "S'okay. I've already seen him."

My response did not seem to answer Racetrack's question, who looked at me anxiously before going on: "Yeah, so – Morris fucked him up last week. Didn't take any of his laudanum, though." Annie reappeared to remove our empty glasses and substitute them for another round, this time with her famous All Sorts liquor. Racetrack sniffled a second time, and I noticed a splash of blood on the bandana he used. He took a swig of the glass while Annie placed a glass in front of me. "Damn – that's good stuff!" he declared, the alcohol loosening him up. "Anyway – Morris and one of his sidekicks who'd gone with him both claimed they'd broken Skittery's nose and would've cracked his skull, too, if Alexei hadn't come out like a madman with his club. Crazy Russian was hopped up on his own stuff again, but thank God he was, or Skittery might not have been so lucky. Morris managed to escape, but not before Alexei gave him a few good whacks about his face, and now he looks ugly as ever. Of course, Skittery looks worse from the descriptions he gave, but it didn't sound like he was telling the truth. We all know Skittery can hold his own in a fight."

"I'm quite confused," I said. "What do the Gophers want from Skittery, if not his narcotics?"

"Not what," Jack replied, very matter-of-factly, as he drank his liquor.

"It's who, really," Racetrack seconded. "Drugs ain't the only thing Alexei and his boys make a profit off of, and the Gophers are too lazy to do their own business so they steal someone else's. One-Lung wants Spot's boys to merge with them so he can take Alexei's trade, but Spot is allied with his enemy, so it ain't gonna happen."

"And how do you two figure into all of this?" I asked. "Are you Gophers?"

"Nah, we're neutral as far as One-Lung is concerned," Racetrack continued. "Mush is the closest thing to a Gopher, but really just a way for us to spy on the inside. He's with us. Once a newsie…"

Luckily, I'd just finished my glass of All Sorts, as this information would have made me smack the two if I'd been sober. I glanced over at Sonia, who was listening to the conversation with considerable composure. Spot was staring at Racetrack with vast captivation.

"Anyhow," Spot said, "you think Morris might've exaggerated his encounter with Skitts. It's likely, considering he looked intact yesterday. Anything more?"

"Well then there's the trouble with the kid at Alexei's door this morning," Racetrack replied, pressing his back against the chair so that his glass could be taken away by Annie. "Nasty job altogether what One-Lung's goons did." We were now served another tray of All Sort's – rather strong. Our empty cups were replaced with full ones.

"Hang on a second, Spot," Jack said softly. "I just wanted to let you know you might want to take a shot before hearing this. It ain't pretty."

"I'm sure I can handle it, Jacky-boy," Spot replied. "I've yet to be shaken. Anyway, the kid?"

"Well," Racetrack said. "One-Lung made some off-handed comment about wanting to give Alexei a warning. And One-Lung gave his boys permission to carry out that warning, by whatever means. So one of his cronies goes down to Alexei's territory and snatches one of the little ones and slits her throat in the alley, cuts out her tongue, and leaves her at the doorstep of his joint. A very specific kind of handiwork."

Spot, Sonia, and I all froze with our glasses in hand and exchanged glances. "Specific handiwork?" Spot said softly. "I don't know of anyone who cuts out tongues after he's cut someone's throat."

"Exactly!" Racetrack said heartily. The topic, though grisly, appeared to be calming him; the liquor helped, too. "It's very unique. But it had been done. Poor kid was probably terrified for those last few seconds."

He used almost the same tone Spot had used on me when talking about Jack impregnating Sarah.

"Apparently," Racetrack went on, "Skittery found the girl and said he knew her in passing, having seen her around. But other than that, she was nameless. When we asked, Skittery told us she didn't have a family, and that she came from the streets." He fished for something in the inside of his vest pocket. "It seemed like she'd been killed at random."

After that, he dropped a light purple hair ribbon onto the table.

"Said she was wearing this in her hair," Jack said. "Could've been anyone. Skittery said he remembered the day she came in, when he saw her for the first time."

"Did Skittery mention," I said, remembering Estelle Marcotte and thinking I might be sick, "anything about – I mean, what she looked like? Well, did he give you a description of her?"

"Kind of," Jack replied. "She was a small thing, with dark eyes, light hair. Like I said, could be anyone." He paused and stared at me with that same misgiving he had shown me when I arrived. "You know her?"

"Whoever did it was an animal," Sonia said, purposely shifting the focus. "Who could be so gruesome?"

"Lots of folks," Jack said. "I can think of a few."

Spot was gazing at the purple ribbon. _That_ , his stare seemed to tell me, _belonged to someone we met._

"Alexei said the way her throat was cut," Racetrack continued, "was swift, clean, and efficient-like. Someone had to have come up behind her, grabbed her, pulled her head back, and sliced downwards through the carotid artery. She could've looked a lot messier. So," he gulped down a big sip of All Sorts. "Whoever it was knew what they were doing. Alexei thinks it was someone with some kind of navy training. But why carry out a warning in this manner when the girl would've been worth more to the Gophers alive than dead? It's rather unclear."

We were all silent at that. I was scared to pick up the ribbon as we all gazed at it as Annie appeared again with glasses of liquor.

"Interesting," Spot said. He eventually glanced up at Racetrack whose thin face was beginning to turn pink with the alcohol. "A lot to work through, Race."

"That ain't the half of it," Racetrack replied, settling into his liquor.

"Take it easy," Jack whispered. "Don't forget your head."

Racetrack ignored him. "That ain't the half of it," he said again. "Her death interfered with the quota, and Alexei almost got soaked by Draper himself, but Jack can tell you about that part." Racetrack gazed at us with a smile. "My glass is too full."

Jack observed him, nodding. "You'll be dead to the world in the morning," he murmured. "And you'll complain to me, but I'm telling you so now."

"Jacky-boy," Spot said, resting his elbows on the table and holding his glass, "Race sure has said a lot. How can there be anything left?"

"But there is one thing," Jack replied, "and it might affect you as much as it did Alexei. When Draper came by the joint to collect, and found there were only eight instead of nine, he accused Alexei of cheating him. When Alexei showed Draper the girl's body, Draper went ballistic and blamed Alexei's boys for being too intoxicated with opium to maintain order. He said he wouldn't hesitate to take his business to the Gophers if Alexei wasn't more careful."

We waited a couple of seconds for Jack to throw back another swig of All Sorts, but when Annie returned with yet another round, almost forcefully taking away the glass that Racetrack was nursing, we urged Jack to go on.

"Alexei loses most of his profit, and by effect, so will you," Jack said, and then he looked to Racetrack. "And that will make it easier for the Gophers to swipe the territory as well, right?" Racetrack raised his eyebrows in agreement, and Jack went on. "I ain't sure who I'm more afraid of: One-Lung or Draper."

"Say, I thought Jack Kelly wasn't afraid of no one," Sonia said. "Am I hearing otherwise? I suppose you were all talk after all."

Jack seemed astonished. "Are you telling me you find One-Lung and Draper charming, Sonia?"

As Sonia shrugged in amusement, Spot interrupted. "I have to admit I'm more disturbed by whoever discarded that girl, Jacky-boy."

After finishing our drinks, we reviewed the crimes of One-Lung and James 'Shang' Draper, who was as his name suggests a famous shanghaier and keeper of a notorious disorderly house on the waterfront.

Having downed the last of his alcohol, Jack began to light a cigarette, cutting himself off from any more rounds. He seemed rather conflicted when Annie brought over yet another tray of whiskey and placed a glass before him.

"Really, Spot," Racetrack said in ongoing puzzlement as he watched Spot pick up the glass without fumbling, "I do believe you have a drinking problem. Might want to ease off a little."

"It's too late for that," Spot said.

"He's right," Jack took a large gulp from his own glass, widening his eyes as the contents spilled down his throat, "it's in our blood. Anyway, Draper is demanding that Alexei get double the amount from now own to make up for future losses so long as the Gophers are after you."

"And if he doesn't?" Spot asked.

"Well, like I said," Jack replied, shaking his head, "We're all fucked."

Spot appeared disappointed at this. Jack, who was staring at his almost empty glass and looked to me as if he was about to fall over, coughed painfully. "Well, we're only fucked if Draper takes his business to the Gophers."

Racetrack looked concerned. "Jack," he muttered, "Who else would he turn to?"

Jack replied quietly and hurriedly, "Yes, odds are he would turn to them, but he knows One-Lung is sneaky, we talked about this."

"Fellas," Spot said, "what are you talking about?"

Racetrack took a swig from his glass apprehensively. "Draper has the cops paid off, and One-Lung doesn't. Why would Draper want to bring that kind of trouble to his business, unless he somehow killed One-Lung, took control of the Gophers, and thereby made all their activity permissible in the eyes of the cops on his payroll." He eyed Jack; apparently nervous his friend had cast too much doubt. "Okay, now you can continue."

Jack went on quietly, "There's a good chance Draper will take care of One-Lung for us, but that leaves us with Draper who might be worse."

"True," I said. "I remember how Draper can be."

"Right," Jack answered, "but Alexei likes him."

"Say—" Sonia interrupted. "If you haven't noticed, Jack, Alexei don't like Draper no more than you do. He's afraid of him, which tells us a lot. Draper just pays good."

"I have noticed, Sonia," Jack replied. "And if _you_ haven't noticed, Alexei ain't no saint either. He might as well be just like Draper—but I suppose he has you fooled, too."

"Celly," Spot broke in, his voice sharpening a little, "I feel as though I've been away for as long as you have – for a second time, fellas, I don't follow you."

Sonia began to explain to Spot how Alexei was nothing like Draper, but following that recent joke of his I needed to contribute and speak my peace. I hadn't known Alexei before I met him yesterday, but I did know Draper. The middle-age man used to terrify me when I was a child, and I made sure to stay well away from him when I was very little. My two older sisters (I told the others in what I believed was a very indifferent tone) were coerced into working for Draper in his disorderly house by some other girls when I was about ten. This of course meant that my younger sister and I had no choice but to go with them. I remembered Draper himself administering whippings and black eyes to both Béatrice and Léa, while Margot and I hid elsewhere in the brothel. I recalled aloud one incident when Léa found a nine-year-old girl beaten to death in one of the back rooms.

"That being said," Spot said, as Annie appeared once again with more drinks, "I'm sure we know what Draper is capable of."

"And what Alexei is capable of," Jack replied. "Spot, I don't understand why you want to be mixed up with him. He's just as bad."

"Please don't forget," Sonia interjected – and it was very odd to see _her_ display any emotion other than blissful ignorance! – "Alexei is not friends with Draper neither. He only sells him—" She stopped herself, and relaxed. "Draper pays good is all."

"Ain't One-Lung's boys just as tough as Alexei's?" Spot asked.

"There are three reasons as far as I can tell that Draper prefers doing business with Alexei," Jack replied. "First, obviously, Alexei has the cops on his beat paid off—and he has more of a low-key reputation than One-Lung does. Second, Draper knows One-Lung will kill him for his business if he won't surrender his power, and Alexei by contrast can't kill Draper because of who Draper has, as you know Spot,"—Jack exchanged a look with his friend, "And finally, Alexei's boys don't cause trouble like One-Lung's boys do. They're all opium fiends, not a threat."

"Interesting," Spot said. "But if Alexei _did_ kill Draper, what would that mean to the Gophers?"

"It would definitely make a statement." Jack took a drag out of his cigarette as he leaned back in his chair with a smirk. "But you know as well as I do how useless that would be in the end. Think about who Draper's closest affiliate is. It ain't Alexei."

Spot shrugged slightly in agreement at this as he sat back, holding up a hand in refusal when Jack offered him a cigarette. "You bring up a good point," he said, "There is one person who is the same kind of scum as Draper, fellas, and it ain't Alexei."

Jack looked at Racetrack once more, and the other newsie nodded in acceptance. At this, Jack took another long drag of his cigarette, looking rather disgusted about whoever it was they were talking about.

"Odds are," he said, "If Alexei were to, say, kill Draper, then he'd also have to kill his right-hand." He ashed his cigarette on the table. "And that would lead to all kinds of trouble with the cops, even if Alexei has some of 'em paid off. He has more power than One-Lung or Draper."

"Snyder?" Sonia asked absently.

"Snyder," Spot replied.

"That son of a bitch," Jack said, "is Draper's other means of profit. And he doesn't have to pay Snyder as much 'cause Snyder's already getting reimbursed by the city." He scooted back in his chair and took a small sip of his whiskey.

"Truth is," Spot wondered aloud as Sonia fidgeted nervously with one of Jack's cigarettes, "he's one of the reasons Alexei can't kill Draper, as you've already mentioned. Or stop business with him."

Jack glanced at Sonia. "Sonia?"

Sonia sighed as she took the cigarette away from her lips, shrugging. Her eyes traveled from Spot's to Jack's, and then she narrowed them in resignation. "Alexei told Spot…"

"Told him what?" I asked, fidgeting like a child.

Spot was looking at Sonia, his face growing more somber and uneasy than hers. "It's okay, you can tell her—"

"What is it?" I asked, and Sonia handed me her cigarette, which I put to my lips in inhaled. I felt my palms start to sweat.

"Skittery knows a kid locked up in the Refuge," Jack said. "And if Alexei cuts of business with Draper, Snyder threatened Skittery with sending the girl to Draper's. Skittery said he'd kill himself if anything happened to this girl, and that it was his job to make sure she stays safe. Even if the Refuge is it. He won't tell us who it is, though—ain't even told Spot."

Spot glanced over, a knowing smirk on his face despite the subject. "Jacky-boy, he ain't even told Alexei."

Jack stared down at the table, shrugging uncomfortably, while Racetrack spoke up in his usual sarcastic voice. "Don't forget, Spot, that Skittery doesn't know that we know. Let alone Celly, now, and it might be trouble if he finds out."

"And he won't find out, Race, not from me. Or Sonia, that is." Spot drummed his fingers on the table as Annie reappeared to collect our empty glasses. "Other than that, fellas, I'd say we learned a lot." As Annie took away our glasses, I thought Racetrack might pass out right there at the table. Spot maintained his gaze on the two 'Hattaners. "Lots more to find out. And I'm afraid we haven't been…as honest with you as you have been with us. Let me fix that."

Spot then had me explain where I had been for the past three years to Jack and Racetrack, and then my escape back to the city. I held nothing back when I recounted what it was like in the convent: the guilt I felt, the longing for Skittery, the punishment I endured, the pain I bore for it were all detailed for them. I made no effort to disguise my misery, and Spot encourage me not to hold back, and I did exactly that. I told them about visiting Skittery the other day, meeting Alexei, and the outburst that followed. Jack and Racetrack froze for a second upon hearing this, and they exchanged a look when I mentioned smashing the bottles of laudanum and chloral hydrate on the ground. Both 'Hattaners' reaction to me slapping Skittery was a mix of surprise and understanding.

I had to admit, after all the whiskey I'd thrown back, I was beginning to regret my decision of striking Skittery. Whatever apprehension I'd had upon revealing my troubles to Spot, Sonia, Jack, and Racetrack seemed to vanish after all they had discussed. In my intoxicated state, I was beginning to think more and more of Sonia than just some air-head moll.

At the same time, I also wondered where I figured into all of this, having appeared out of nowhere when so much had changed. I certainly could do little to solve any of their problems, aside from staying out of their way; and when we were helping Racetrack out of the pub, the night being well on its way at 1:30 in the morning, I racked my clouded brain for ways I could contribute to their cause. My solution was just as clouded: after waving goodnight to Sonia and Spot and watching as they headed back over the bridge toward Brooklyn (she would spend the night at his place), I walked in the opposite direction of the boarding house and headed toward Alexei's joint.


	8. Helene

Realizing that it would be best for me to be ready for any eventuality when I got to the dive, I opted for a stroll to Corlear's Hook to let the wind clear my head a little. The waterfront was fairly abandoned, save for the sporadic huddle of young newsboys in tattered clothes who were doing their best to hawk their last papers. These boys must be the new generation that Jack left behind in the Duane Street Lodging House, following the strike. Jack's boys had always been indisputably resourceful—save for the strike, the circulation of papers increased in Manhattan under his leadership—but their capabilities in the trade seemingly led them to believe they wielded a kind of dominance. Once in a while a boy of about twelve, dressed in rags and covered in grime, would spot a newsboy from another borough selling papers obliviously on a Manhattan corner and try to soak him. Trying to persuade these territorial fanatics that it couldn't possibly matter who sold where was near useless, and the fights got worse. Occasionally, the confrontations resulted in bloodshed, which made the Manhattan boys all the cockier—and also made me warier than usual as I walked by them that night. My rather sautéed walk must have made my intoxication obvious, unfortunately, because when I passed by a few groups of ink-stained warriors, they watched me with question, silently warning me to go elsewhere if I was looking for trouble.

Once I got to Corlear's Hook I had grown quite attentive and extremely chilled from the harsh wind. When I walked by the big, brown mass of ships in the harbor I started to fantasize about what I would say to Skittery when I saw him at Alexei's place; suddenly, I was taken completely aback when a flashy and loud herd, whom I gaged to be hookers about my age if not a little older, came bowling around the southern tip of Corlear's Hook in bawdy dresses that had seen better days. The herd came to a stop, and five hookers in gaudy stepped into the moonlight, whooshing toward the docks. They quickly came back into my view, pulling three older, rather cosmopolitan-dressed prostitutes along with force.

"Highfalutin bitches!" one girl yelled, slamming the first woman a mighty blast onto her head with what seemed to be part of an axe handle. Red liquid poured promptly from the woman's forehead and temple, spraying down her neck and onto her bodice. "Go back to your uptown johns, the Hook is our turf, see!"

Three of the other girls grabbed the remaining two women, who seemed more elderly than the other one, and a fourth girl got right up next to her. "Think you can damn well cheat us out of our customers, do you?"

"Girls, really, you are sorely mistaken," one of the two answered, with an air that led me to believe she was used these scrapes. "Only way a customer would fuck the likes of you is if he were desperate enough to catch the pox." That comment was met with two hard hits to her nose, making her clutch her face in pain and cry out.

In times like these, having your wits about you was key: If I really wanted, I might try to break it up and risk getting my head bashed, or maybe…

"Wait!" I yelled to the girls, and they twisted their callous glares in my direction. "Hey, cheese it. I thought I saw one of the Refuge paddy wagons on its way, sending someone to round up any loitering kids on the waterfront!"

"Dammit, really?" said the girl who appeared to be in charge, walking away from the docks. "What street did you see it on?"

"Coming down Rivington!" I said, nodding to my left.

"Let's go, girls!" said the leader. "Ain't gonna take us in tonight!" This prompted yells and declarations of agreement from the rest of them as they packed together again and took off for Goerck Street, saying I could come with them but not really caring whether I did.

I headed toward the three battered women, and could just get out, "Are you okay…" when they scampered away at top speed, the elderly woman pinching her nose and hobbling painfully. It struck me that when the hookers realized they weren't being chased, they might seek me out for revenge, so I then hurried down Cherry Street toward James Street to Alexei's den.

The name of bar on the first floor was displayed above the front entrance: Slaughterhouse Point, and the echoes of patrons inside made the place lively at 2 in the morning. The building had not been named after any particular slaughterhouse, as the space had previously been a gin mill some time ago. I remembered to go into the alley for the side entrance and for a moment I gazed up at the fourth floor, noticing the curtains on the windows were drawn so as to shield the eyes of any respectable citizen passing by. I stepped inside the door only to find myself in a different sort of atmosphere than it had previously been in the daytime when Spot and I came. The place seemed larger, somehow, and noisier, too. It was close to bursting out the door with lewd patrons even at this late hour. Men and women stood at the long bar, at the many small tables, and out on the dance floor. There was a stage on which three blowsy women were suggestively dancing to a number called "I Can't Think of Nuthin' Else But You, Lulu." One end of the bar was completely taken up by a huge wooden keg with an attached hose. I watched as bar attendants dumped the unfinished contents of glasses into the open barrel top as a line of drunk lowlifes waited in line at the hose. I recognized one of them to be Molly, who used to be close friends with my eldest sister Béatrice. She stood close to the front of the line, appearing very drunk, with her body pressed against some goblin-faced mobster.

I pushed past the crowd and climbed the stairs in the back, one after the other until I reached the fourth floor. Inside the busy doorway of Alexei's—around which stood a wide range of ragged young women, all of them attempting to drum up business with Alexei's drug-induced boys—was a wide, wood-scuffed table, along with several moth-eaten sofas and simple chairs of the kind that were cheaply made and easily replaceable. A grime-caked and brass-lined bed was placed at the far end of the wide, low-ceilinged room, on which more boys and their molls in various stages of dress sat and smoked. I could still hear the cheerful yet distorted tune from downstairs.

The main if not only activity of Alexei's den was to sell whatever kind of narcotic they supplied to various customers and indulge in whatever was leftover. Alexei's gang included teenaged boys who looked to have once been of the honest type, having made a living selling newspapers, peddling, or shining shoes, now lying completely drugged out from their new trade. The other half of boys, who appeared to be more alert, were hardened-looking, dealing with customers who came in and out of the place. Lastly, there were the occasional young women of about my age who hung about either as girlfriends or simply as prostitutes, I couldn't tell. Besides the back room where I'd seen Skittery the other day, there wasn't much to call home for these miserable creatures. I found myself wondering where they went home at night, to a cheap flophouse on the block, or perhaps they crashed on the fifth floor where I knew to be several rooms or so upon observing several young women leading their stumbling, narcotic fiends up the stairs.

The thing that was so unusual about Alexei's place, like a few other drug dens I'd known in my time, was the presence of smaller than usual girls milling about amidst the debauchery. Despite me assuming the worst of Alexei's intentions, I noticed the girls were paid little attention to, except when they requested to be jabbed with the drug every so often, and it looked as though they didn't have to pay for any of it. All in all, I concluded, the place was like any other seedy den that I'd seen: sleazy, cloudy, and very frightening.

The feeling of something sharp being pressed against my back and a tight and clammy hand circling around my arm brought me out of my thoughts with a jolt. The abrupt Russian accent somewhere in the background clued me in to Alexei's presence somewhere near me; but I guessed the hand and wooden club belonged to one of Alexei's associates, the one who had been jabbing the drug into the little ones' arms on my previous visit, who I'd come to know as Muggs Tracey. Tracey was a sinewy, impulsive and somewhat crazy hoodlum from Brooklyn who, once one of Spot's newsies, occasionally hung around with and worked for Alexei, who shared a powerful addiction to opium.

"I believe you made your opinion quite apparent yesterday, dollface," Alexei roared. The voice came from behind me, a bit to my right. "You ain't destroying any more of my bottles. Wandering in here all by yourself, you must be a fool or a lunatic."

"Perhaps I'm both, Alexei," I said, trying to keep my voice steady despite my panic; Tracey, I learned, was infamous for clubbing his foes to death. "I'm here to apologize."

Alexei chuckled. " _Really,_ dollface? What could I possibly want with your apology?" Finally, he stepped into my view, his dirt-tainted pullover unbuttoned halfway and his greasy mop of golden hair reeking of the drug. A long, wooden pipe dangled loosely at his side.

"I realized I had no right to interrupt your business," I gulped.

He walked forward, his deep-set eyes looking hauntingly empty. "That so?" he said, his breath on my nose. "And you're sorry?"

"Very," I said.

"Yeah? How sorry?"

"Easy, now. I'm not taking my clothes off for your forgiveness."

Alexei stared at me for a second, racking his drug-induced mind for understanding. After a beat or two, his lopsided grin returned. "Well careful, dollface. You ain't _gotta_ take your clothes off! Okay, fair enough, leave her be, Muggs."

As he said this, I noticed the few others who had been watching and expecting to see an altercation lost interest and turned away. I looked at the crazy-eyed Muggs Tracey and saw him lower his club to his side, his grip loosening on it, and run a hand through his hair. He folded his arms across his chest, prepared to grab me again, yet all I did was tug my shawl tighter around my shoulders.

"Have some opium, Muggs," I said. "Might help you relax."

Tracey moved toward me as Alexei's hand shot out to bar him with a chuckle. "Hey, calm down, Muggs, she's don't mean nothing by it, as we know." He looked at me and took my hand in his, squeezing it profusely. "You're welcome here, dollface. I'll even let you try the merchandise. We're friends now, after all."

I swallowed back my uneasy feeling and followed him to the wide table in the back room. I observed the same vice and squalor here as in the main room, and I recognized the hole in the peeling wallpaper behind the table where the bottles of various tinctures were kept. I fought to hold onto the fact that Alexei was bad news, probably dangerous, and so I turned down his offer for a smoke from his treasured pipe (aside from my previous nightmarish experiences from the stuff, I had a suspicion he might have tampered with the drug) and instead opted for a shot of whiskey. The contents of the small glass did not taste as strong as it had at The Hole In The Wall, however, I figured it had been watered down. As the liquid poured down my throat, I watched a poker game between a table of Alexei's boys play out at the corner of my eye.

Alexei inhaled from his pipe and flinched when one of the littler girls pulled on his sleeves for a puff of the same. Alexei shook her off easily.

"So, dollface," he said to me, glaring down at the little girl's desperate face. "What really brings you here? You looking to try the stuff you shattered yesterday?"

"Not especially, Alexei," I said. "I was hoping since I came all this way to apologize, you would show me a little kindness and tell me where I could find Skittery."

The boy gave me a once-over with his eyes as the little girl sauntered away in search of a willing proprietor of the drug. "And why in hell would I do something like that? By the way, how come you ventured here all alone at this hour?"

"I was with friends," I replied. "And I'm not asking you for anything else."

"Sure." He kept his incredulous façade. "I don't know where he is at the moment, dollface. Skittery, he comes and goes at all hours. Whenever. I don't ask him where he goes all the damn time, you know. He left about an hour ago, I think. Said he'd be gone for a while, but he sleeps here, has his own room upstairs. Last week, I asked him where he goes every night. He said he goes for walks, but I think he's lying. I thought about sending Tracey to follow him, not to hurt him or anything, just to see what he's up to, where he goes. But he always comes back, so I don't care so much." He took another puff from the pipe and I turned my head as the smoke drifted my way. "I'm sure he'll turn up sooner or later if you hang around, dollface."

I bit my tongue, wanting him to tell me more; but his focus was shifted elsewhere by two of the littler girls in petticoats and bloomers by the doorway who were whining about wanting to smoke some. Tears began to roll down their cheeks. Alexei laughed at the display, only to follow it with: "If you brats keep that up, I'll give you something to cry about!"

"Alexei?" I said eventually. "Did Skittery say anything about me after I left?"

"Not that I remember," he replied with a shake of his head. "Why don't you leave now while you can?"

"Is that a threat? Are you afraid someone will see me? Skittery, perhaps?"

"Forget it, I ain't need a reason," he replied, irritated. "Thing is, I don't take kindly to uppity gals like yourself in my home. And the rest of the gang agree. We don't care for your interreference in our business."

"You could at least let me wait up in Skittery's room for him. I promise you won't even know I'm here."

Alexei groaned, running a hand through his hair. "I tried to be nice, dollface."

"I won't cause any trouble," I bargained.

He stared at me steadily and gave a half-shrug. "No trouble. And don't come back in here if you decide to leave. Go up the stairs, and his room is the sixth door on the right." I headed for the door. "Wait." He caught to me, handing me my forgotten whiskey. "I better not regret this, doll."

I forced a smile and accepted the glass of whiskey, shimmying around his gang toward the darkened hallway to find the stairs. A handful of Alexei's boys and their molls stood in my way, noting that I seemed put-together and more sober than the rest. They tried to tempt me with the opium pipe, shoving it in my face and pawing at my arms. I kept my stare straight ahead to the hallway, clasping the St. Joan medal that was around my neck tightly between my fingertips. I ignored their slurred beckoning to the best of my ability. When I walked by the rusty bed, a droopy-eyed Muggs Tracey—with dried blood under his nose and who'd now lost his shirt—winked at me in a way that insinuated he'd seen me naked.

The hallway was lit up only by the glow of the candles coming from Alexei's open door, so I stumbled my way toward the stairs. The walls were dripping some kind of putrid liquid, and right when I began to ascend to the fourth floor, I heard a weak yelp like a kitten whose tail had been stepped on. Turning around blindly in the darkness, I could see in the dim glow a boy had dragged one of the little ones outside to chastise her about stealing his pipe. I winced and quickly turned back to the stairs, afraid to get involved, and scampered the rest of the way up. I caught my breath when I reached the top, taking a shot of the whiskey to regain my courage.

As my heart rate slowed, I felt like I had made a terrible mistake in coming here. This feeling only grew as I found myself in front of the sixth door on the right, identical to all the other ones I'd passed. It looked like it had taken a beating in its years. Judging Skittery wasn't home based on what Alexei had said, I was a bit confused to see a soft glow of light coming from under the door crack. I crouched down on the ground, trying to peek under it. The creaking of the floorboards beneath me gave away my position, and I felt my heart jump out of my chest when I heard a voice from the other side call, "Someone there?"

I sprang to my feet and turned the knob. A miserable old mattress was thrown near the broken window and a rotting crate was used as a makeshift nightstand beside it. The walls appeared to be damp and thin, and the wind coming in through the shattered glass of the window made me shiver. It looked out to a similar tenement building in structure, and below that was a rung of fire escapes.

Laying on the mattress and snuggled under the sheets was a tiny dark-haired girl, no more than thirteen, her lips roughly reddened with a dark shade of lipstick. She was dressed in a white cotton chemise and simple white bloomers. Clear-cut tear stains were visible trailing from her warm brown eyes—so identical to Estelle's. She seemed to have been weeping.

"I already told them, I don't want any opium," she said, struggling to keep her voice even. "I just want to sleep, please."

"It's okay," I said, "I won't—"

"I said I don't want any opium!" the girl hissed, her voice cracking at the end. _"Putain, laisse-moi tranquille!"_

Her sobs resumed, and she hid her face in the pillow as I shifted from foot to foot, feeling very claustrophobic all of a sudden. I listened to her weep a second, deliberating whether or not I should ask the question I was wondering. I finally did.

"Are you Estelle Marcotte's sister?" I guessed.

The girl blinked away her stray tears and wiped her nose quickly. "Yes, she's my little sister. Why? Has something happened to her?"

"No, I thought…I saw her here the other day. I had only met her a day before."

The girl stared up at me sadly. "Are you that nun who took her to lunch?"

"Yes, but I'm not a nun, anymore," I said, not wanting to confuse her further with the details.

"Not anymore?" She looked flopped back onto the mattress, sniffling, and gave a dry laugh. "Did you get fired?" She fixed her gaze on the ceiling despondently. "Anyway, it was Estelle you saw here yesterday—she's in a lot of trouble because of you."

"Because of me?" I felt the room begin to close around me and my throat felt scratchy. I took a nervous sip from my glass. "What did I do?"

"She came home empty-handed."

"Empty-handed…" My eyelids began to droop, and I was beginning to regret all the drinking I had done and lack of sleep I had gotten. Her words went in one ear and out the other. "I don't understand."

"Clearly. Yesterday, I was at work, selling flowers at my usual corner. I saw Estelle heading here to trade the scraps she'd collected a few bottles of Laudanum. I waited for her across the street for a long time, longer than usual. I thought something bad might've happened. I sold my last flower, and then I hear Spot Conlon calling 'Helene!' That's my name. He had Estelle in his arms, and she was crying, saying a nun smashed the bottles she'd gotten. I wanted to run in there myself, but Spot said he'd take care of it. We got a terrible beating when we got home."

"But…" I struggled to piece together words. "The Laudanum wasn't for Estelle." I stepped further into the room, tripping over my feet, wanting nothing more than to curl up on that mattress and close my eyes. The floorboards creaked as I walked, and I felt like I was sinking down into the it, weightlessly.

"Estelle?" Helene's voice swam in my ears. "It was for our stepfather. We get it for him once a week. If we don't, he smacks us about until we can scarcely breathe. I got the worst of it. He thought I had convinced Estelle to lie about what happened. I was too afraid to go home tonight, so Skittery let me stay up here."

My heart sunk from my chest as an enormous flood of guilt washed over me; no wonder Estelle had been so upset. As for Helene, she looked completely defeated, with nothing but sadness and desperation in her eyes. "I…" I tried hard to speak. "I—"

Without any warning, I staggered backwards, hitting the wall and slumping to the floor. This made Helene sit up with a little jolt, watching my head reel, then she gasped as the doorknob turned. I writhed to turn my head to see who had startled her, and I squinted to see Alexei, Muggs Tracey, and two other boys walk into the room. Tracey was holding his signature club, twirling it tauntingly. I clutched my head with my hands, feeling dizzy as the room spun quickly. I wanted to kick myself for being so stupid. Of course, they had put knock-out-drops in my drink—they sold the stuff, dammit. I had been under the influence of something like this before, but never this powerfully.

"Won't cause no trouble, eh dollface?" Alexei said. He turned to his other two boys as Tracey leaned against the doorframe. "What did I say, boys? Ain't she a beauty to look at? Wonder if she's as pretty on the inside."

His boys stood above me and started to pull at my shawl and blouse. I fought to sit up and bring my knees to my chest, pushing their hands away as best I could. As soon as I did so, Tracey pushed off the doorframe and flipped his club in the air, caught it, and with a smirk, gave me a whack over the side of my head. My head fell back, hitting the wall again, and I craned my neck to see Helene but she was gone. One of the boys snatched my St. Joan medal from around my neck, and the two began arguing over who would pawn it. I felt my skirt being bunched up around my waist, and then realized Tracey was holding my arms back so I couldn't move. My eyes were starting to close, and I must have begun to hallucinate. I could've sworn that I saw Sarah Jacobs barge into the room and aim a pistol at Tracey's head before I gave into the drug and the world went black.


End file.
